


Circles of Rust

by keroseneSteve



Series: Drought [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arc Reactor, Bruce and Tony are snarky as fuck, Character Death, Decidedly vague angst, Gen, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, I mean, I try, PTSD, Palladium Poisoning, Secret Identity, Steve Feels, Temporary Character Death, Tony Feels, Tony and Sarv are totally bros, Violence, Weird Coping Methods, What the fuck is Yinsen, because I felt like being a little dark this time around, being safe with the rating, so there's gore, things explode because Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 57,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keroseneSteve/pseuds/keroseneSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yinsen dies too soon, and Tony doesn't know how to deal with what he realizes will come if he ever makes it back to America. Instead, he uses his escape to confirm his supposed death, moving to urban India to start a new life as a mechanic with a secret past time of blowing up every piece of Stark weaponry Stane Industries can throw at him. Audis, cats, SHIELD, Bruce, a fair amount of explosions, snark from all sides, ghosts, art, and palladium poisoning with a side of terrorism and a certain defrosted Cappucino.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tired

**Author's Note:**

> I had an Urge to Write. These bouts of psychosis are dangerous. 
> 
> I might not actually continue this, because while I have a bunch of ideas I just. Ugh. I dunno, I like feedback? So if you guys like it, I might (will) find it in me to write up some more.
> 
> Do you guys like Vienna Teng? Well, I do. And she's all I listened to while writing this. Seriously. Her and AC/DC's Shoot to Thrill because it got put in the wrong playlist. The title, actually, is this tiny fragment of her song, Drought. Which, incidentally, is about writer's block. You should go listen to it, but I won't supply a link because you all know how Youtube works, right? Yes good. Thank you for your cooperation and also reading my rather rude statement, but I'm not nice like that. Sorry.
> 
> I AM NEVER HAPPY WITH THE SUMMARY.

He figures there's enough blood and tissue to make the scene look realistic enough. Supposing someone comes looking, anyways, and bothers to see if that red splatter over there used to be him. There's plenty of it, enough that the general assumption is that one doesn't make it out alive after losing chunks of bone and muscle this big. It's especially convincing if there's a big explosion that conveniently tears everyone else to pieces, too.

If they don't go looking for pieces of Tony Stark in blown up terrorist cells then they'll have to assume he died somewhere in Buttfuck Nowhere Important, Afghanistan. That's okay with him. He doesn't want to go back to being billionaire weapons designer Tony Stark. He doesn't want to deal with the public backlash of returning from the dead. He certainly doesn't want to see Pepper's face if he comes back broken, wrecked as he is now. Tony Stark died with Ho Yinsen, died with the good man who was killed for Stark's plan to build a suit of armor instead of the missiles Raza wanted. Now Tony, just Tony, is alone, has been alone for two weeks, and they've kept up with the beatings and the torture just because they can and somehow he's still expected to build their missiles and Tony is just so done. So tired.

He wants to be free.

There's banging on the solid metal doors of his portion of the cave, and as he struggles with the chest piece attachment while the programming finishes up he glances to the right and sees the razor Yinsen used in its little cup. For a moment he pauses, thinks of how the other man shaved every day without fail, how even if his hands were raw or bruised or bloody they never shook, not once. Thinks of how he inspired Tony and kept him going. Thinks of the expression on his face when he died.

He steels himself, and pinches the skin on his wrist pushing the final bracket of the chest piece into place. The screen of the nineties' box monitor flashes green and the suit powers on in acknowledgement. It's convienient, he feels, that the moment the suit releases the chain attachments is the moment the door explodes. Serves as a nice dramatic beginning to his escape.

They obviously weren't expecting a robotic suit of armor, no matter how primitive or patchwork it may be. Woefully unprepared, these people, for the genius eccentricity of Tony Stark. He almost finds it amusing that they're trying to shoot him down with handguns and rifles. Can you shoot down a missile with an M9? The answer is no. So, logically, can you shoot down a suit made of missile parts with an M9? The answer is, again, no.

Can you shoot the armor enough to bruise the body inside the armor? Unfortunately, yes. It's a very good thing Tony has a high threshold for pain now. One of the greatest gifts the Ten Rings gave him, backhanded as it was. The bullets don't do any damage, not really, so he has a good time walking through the mess of terrorists - there's the guy who shoved his head in the water the first time, and he was particularly vicious so Tony makes sure his skull meets a wall - and moving them out of his way. There really isn't enough room in this cave-hallway (cave-way? cave hall?) anyways, so he makes room for himself and damn everyone else. This is his time for revenge.

It doesn't take long to find Yinsen's operating room. Off the table and relatively clear-headed six weeks later, he sees how crude it is and fights the cringe on the doctor's behalf. He wastes a precious minute scanning the area and sees blood smeared on the wall, on the corner of the table. Tony knows for a fact that he was the last person operated on since he arrived and feels sick. There's more of it on the ground, too.

The parts that used to fill the hole in his chest are in a jar, in the back of a freezer. He's not sure why they have a freezer in this room until he finds organs with names, genders, and ages on their jars. He stares at his own and remembers that they tried to make him eat its contents, once. _Eat your heart, Stark. You have no need of it._ Though the jar is opaque now, covered with ice crystals, he still sees the raw flesh, the white shine of his sternum obscured by meat. His muscle, his skin. An involuntary shudder works its way through him and he swallows, hard. The blast will defrost it. It will be enough.

The rest of the cell finally realizes that all the screaming and gun shooting can't have come solely from their only prisoner, and find him by piling into the cramped operating room. Tony wraps one protective arm around the fragile jar, gentle through the metal suit, and fights his way out.  
Raza is there, at the entrance to the cave. Tony’s never actually been this far without a blindfold or a concussion, so it’s a bit embarrassing to get turned around in the caves he’s lived in for three months. But he imagines Yinsen directing the way, taking smooth, perfectly measures steps with that sense of casualness that only he had mastered. He walks beside Tony even as men fall around them, broken and bloody as Tony himself when he first arrived. However, unlike him, they’ll die here. He’ll make them all burn. 

“Stark,” the man sneers, as though he’s still got a head on the man in the metal suit. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Uh, escaping.” Tony’s words are sure, cocky even, spoken in impeccable Dari kudos to the dead doctor to his right. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You will not escape,” Raza hisses, poisonous even in the face of death. Because, yes, he’s gonna die too. For Yinsen. 

“He’s stalling.” His conscience’s voice is now smooth, soft, faintly accented. “You should end this before it gets out of hand.”

“Right,” he mumbles to himself, and that’s it. Out come the flamethrowers and the metal fists and really, none of these assholes never stood a chance, did they?   
Raza goes down in a spray of blood and a strangled cry. Tony watches with nothing in his heart. He steal’s his captor’s knife and pries open the jar with it, smears it around in all the thawing blood and flesh, drops it. Tips over the jar into his hand, and thanks the stars that he can’t feel his parts even as the sickening squelching sounds make his stomach turn. He arranges it artfully, cleverly, along a wall in such a way that when he blows the roof off it’ll look like it was a person once. And yeah, it was. Once. It was Tony Stark. But soon, there won’t be a Tony Stark anymore. He locates the tie he wore to this godforsaken country, drops it over by the mess so that it’ll get singed just enough to be realistic. Poor billionaire, killed in an explosion after months of captivity. A real American hero, he sneers. Or a tragic villain. He supposes he’ll have to watch the news from a different country and find out. 

He stomps out, sets the place on fire. There are a few of his older model grenades in the piles and he drops a few through the entrances, getting out moments before they blow. It’s all really fast and painless work, almost not worth the amount of time he spent planning it. The only thing that makes it worth that time is, he gets to watch them all die. He stands from a safe distance and eyes the explosion with a critical eye, saying nothing. There’s a lot of silence, leaving his ears ringing after all the crackling and screaming. 

“Stark.” If Tony turns, he can almost see the man there just on the edge of his vision, sleeves rolled up and glasses reflecting the sunlight. “Tony. Don’t waste your life.” And he disappears.

Hearing the words again, real or not, is like a slap in the face. He reveled in being Tony Stark too long after he physically let go. He shakes his head at his own stupidity, turns, and trudges away. 

He should have thought of a cooling unit to put in the suit, jesus christ.


	2. they are a kind people

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pewwwwwwww... And my confidence in this fic drops through the floor with this chapter. The initial response was mind-blowing, guys, and so hugely appreciated and reveled in you have no idea. I just. Screaming and flailing like an idiot so I was good up until I finished this chapter and went oh. 
> 
> So please, feedback is not only appreciated and pleaded after, but more or less needed because damn, I turned myself around this time and I need to know how I'm doing. Please.

Tony hadn't thought the plan through this far. His main focus was his destruction, his death, and theirs. Now that he's gone through with that, he's getting intimately familiar with the sheer monotony of the desert. 

God. 

The thick padding he's got on underneath his suit is protecting him from chafing, but not from the heat. He's being cooked inside the suit, his own personalized oven made for him. He's dizzy, nauseous, blind in the brightness, and so, so hot. It almost doesn't even feel like heat, just his skin crawling, bubbling up and rolling under his protective layers. He would take off the suit, but that would just leave more Starktech weaponry lying around, wouldn't it? That counts, right?

He spends hours under the sun, in hell. Hours. Days. Months. Whole lifetimes reaching as far before him as he can see, starting at his feet. How many times has he died now? How many times has he forced himself to his feet, groaning and aching under a thousand protesting pounds of metal? 

His chest aches, burns. He had to turn off most of the suit so it wouldn't drain the arc reactor, but that just makes it harder to keep going. Harder to move at all. The moment he did it he'd fallen to his knees, bracing himself with his arms so he wouldn't outright collapse. Now, eons later, he's still struggling with the same temptation. To fall down, and not get back up. He's so, so tired. So done. It was all too much effort, and now he's fucked. No food, little water, but that just makes his gut churn. He wants to see an ocean before he dies. Wonders, offhandedly, if that's ever going to happen. If he'll ever get to see if the suit flies. If he'll ever see anyone he knows again, despite what he did to Tony Stark in the cave. Tony's a murderer.

He starts shedding pieces of the suit. 

Tony starts carefully with the arms, peeling back the heat-pliant metal with one gauntlet-free hand and tearing the circuitry apart, wire by wire. Burns his fingertips with the sparking protests, sears his skin on the outer layers. First blisters, then raw wounds as he works slowly to shred every ounce of evidence. Every piece of the wiring is meticulously torn to shreds, so no one, nobody, could ever hope to repair it. Tiny threads of metal lie in the dying man's wake, because that's what he's doing, is dying. Slowly but surely giving into the haze that is his brain, even as he takes the suit apart, removes all the layers, and while that serves as a small relief he puts all the large casing on the protective cloth and drags it behind him. The dunes are too hard to climb, pulling as much weight as he is, and even without the suit he wouldn't make it. Every mile or so, he figures, he drops a piece of suit into a hole he digs with his now unfeeling feet. There's something bad about that, he realizes with a vague distant feeling. Something about damaged nerve endings or something, he's not sure. He was never a biologist. 

Night is falling when Tony buries the helmet. The sand is still hot, enough that when he sits by a large rock, a rare sight amongst all the sand, he's still a little warm when the temperature suddenly drops to freezing levels. He's glad he saved some of the protective under layer, even if it's only helping a little. He covers the reactor very well, because despite it being in his body, it gets cold very quickly, and a ball of ice in the middle of his chest is not the best feeling. Lesson learned, experience had, never again. Except now he's out in the middle of the desert and oh, the cold actually reaches its nasty little fingers through his meager clothing and freezes it anyway. His heartrate slows as his core temperature drops and oh, it's suddenly so hard to move. He doesn't want to move, except to huddle in a ball and sleep, maybe. Sleep sounds good. It might distract from his shivering and maybe, just maybe, he won't feel the cold.

He wakes up to someone's eyes on him. His elbow comes up and slams into the person's abdomen, earning a choked gasp, and he sits up quickly. God, they found him. Some of them made it out alive and they found him and oh god, he doesn't want to go back - 

A soft voice speaks in Dari, asks if he would like a drink. If he's alright. If he knows why he's in the middle of the desert with a hunk of freezing metal in his chest. The ground shudders beneath him as he processes all this and oh. A car, a truck of some sort, with a caravan-type roof over their heads, and they're speaking to him again, telling him he's no longer in Afghanistan but rather in Pakistan, and they brought him there because they thought he might be running away. From what, they don't know, and they don't ask. 

All his hurts come flying at him full-force. He thinks carefully, considers their questions as he sips the proffered water. This is it. He got lucky. He can start over now, offer up a backstory, the frantic babbling of a lost man with no life left to him. But. But what if?

 Tony tells them, in a hoarse, broken voice, that he doesn't know. 


	3. Starting over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. GUYS. You lovely, perfect people. I was not expecting any sort of feedback but I GOT IT and you're all too kind, seriously. Way too nice to me for all my whining. And with all your positive input I found myself typing up a chapter three in class today. To be honest, I wasn't actually expecting to make it this far. So, really, thank you.

He wakes to a wall of pain, a sledgehammer to the chest. His eyes snap open and for a moment, the world is too white, but as he adjusts, all other sensory input registers in a way he absolutely does not appreciate. He hears frantic curses in Dari, sees people moving around him, yet is unable to move. His fingers twitch spasmodically, curling in and out, scrabbling at the rough cloth beneath him as if managing a grip on something might lessen the pain, ease the tightness. His mind brings him back to a time, the one time, worse than any other moment except for Yinsen's death, when he dropped his car battery. 

The weight of the battery had pulled the cords off with a sickening sensation that all his insides were going to come spilling out of the hole in his chest. No, the electromagnet was still there, unbearably heavy in its solidity, but that didn't stop the sudden chill, the shortness of breath. Psychosomatic as it was, he felt the prickle of tiny pieces of shrapnel crawling through his veins, mere millimeters from his heart. In an hour or so, it wouldn't have been his imagination. He found himself clawing at the air beneath him, searching out the battery, but when he found it his hands were shaking too violently to do anything. The panic, the fear, was overwhelming, but the sudden shock of agony dwarfed everything else. At first they studied him, shook him, watched him twitching and gasping and writhing on the floor, clutching the battery like the lifeline it was, and it was too long before someone came with Yinsen, who made quick work of the connections so he could breathe again. It wasn't an instant fix-it, no, it was a gradual decrease in pressure as the electromagnet powered on, a slow abating of the sharp prickling, a long sigh of relief. For an hour afterwards he felt dizzy and weak. At least they left him alone for the rest of the day.

The same sensations apply now, except there's no battery to cling to, no doctor to reattach the wires, just a hand hovering over his chest with the glowing blue that keeps his heart going but it's not where it belongs, it's out of its socket, displaced, missing, and the panic is threatening to swallow him whole. 

The voices get louder as he starts to choke on air and there are hands everywhere, but the haze is dropping, fading everything out and he can't see, knows who they are but doesn't, wants them to let go but can't make them. The blue light moves erratically, moving closer and then farther, as though it doesn't know what to do and Toy thinks it looks rather like a star, yet is too undefined to really see and too bright to be natural. Of course it's not natural, it's made by man. An artificial heart, and like any heart, if you tear it out then the owner becomes cold - dead or otherwise. Tony... Tony is about to be both.

And then they're shoving it at him, pushing the light back into its socket, into his chest, and the rough grind hurts over the beginnings of his cardiac arrest but it's a different hurt, a real one that he feels, is entirely aware of. The click is audible over the cacophony of the voices, his blood beating in his ears. The ragged intake of air sounds painful, is painful, and the voices stop. For an astonishingly clear moment he sees his caretakers hovering over him, yet doesn't mind when they suddenly disappear, held hostage and hidden by the wave of black crashing in.

**8**

So as it turns out, the people who took Tony in are also terrorists. They never tell him to his face, and they never give any indication, but it's not really Tony's business if they aren't the Ten Rings, is it? They don't bother with Starktech either, which is an added bonus that makes him warm up to them a little more. They don't inquire into the extent of his amnesia except out of curiosity. They don't ask about his nightmares They're a kind family, friendly and willing to assist almost everyone they see. Rare people in any part of the world.

They have no idea how to apologize enough for the whole arc reactor mess. 

Their youngest son, Shajid, is an unfortunately over curious thirteen year old who's been asking about the reactor for a few days now. Apparently he just got too curious that evening and started messing with it through the hole in Tony's shirt. When it came out, he tugged and... Tony's intimately familiar with the rest of the story. He assures them that it's alright, but that hey please not touch it anymore, for obvious reasons and they accept this. 

He still asks to be dropped off at the next major city, despite how comfortable he's become around the family of seven. There's no such thing as personal space in their caravan but it's a homey invasion. Tony sleeps on a sack of rice with a bunch of garlic cloves in a bag next to his head, and somehow Jenin ends up draped over his right leg every night. He helps clean the dishes after the adults cook (his first attempts at their gruel had ended so poorly he wasn't allowed to try again) and keeps the kids entertained by trying to come up with a name for him that fits. He "discovers" that he can speak four languages (not including English, which he deliberately does not use), a fact that fascinates the whole family endlessly when he swears in all of them after stubbing his big toe. They are happy to teach him Urdu, the more common language in Pakistan, in exchange for funny phrases in Italian.

But it's time to move on. While seemingly saddened, they promised to help him find his way and agreed to leave him in Lahore, the capital of the Punjab province and second largest city in the country. That's good and all, but the fact that it's near the border to India is what catches his attention.

It would be so easy to hop over and start anew. Will be. He's so doing it.

There are tearful goodbyes and Tony's heart aches in a way it hasn't since... Since before he could remember. Somehow, over the last three weeks of laughing and learning and hiding amongst the rice bags, he's become a part of their family.

They decide on Mitra Kahn, a rather whimsical and unorthodox name meaning "friend". Tony thinks it sounds rather feminine, but Afghan culture is confusing, and they assure him that, while Mitra is an unusual name, nobody would generally ask for the first half. Kahn, it seems, is a sort of honorific that they drop after the first few days of using his name. He finds he rather likes it, though it will have to go once he gets into India. 

The rice sack they give him has some dried food, cooked rice (ha ha) and a considerable amount of money. He closes the bag, and sighs, just a person amongst the heaving crowds of people. It's a beautiful city, but he sees some sort of authority every where he looks, and that's dangerous for a man like him. He swallows, the full reality of his situation stealing his air.

Yinsen stands to his right. "Do it, Tony. Find your way. You're smart, aren't you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next is Steve, unless there's something in particular you wanna see.


	4. Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how this happened so quickly, but it did so here, have a chapter. This is probably your update for the day, because I'll probably go working on the fic I was supposed to update at the beginning of the week but why would I do that when I've got this and all you great people, who leave inspiring encouragements and just basically yes good. I cannot thank you enough. 
> 
> No, I do not make any embarrassing noises when I get an email saying that someone commented. Not at all.
> 
> EDIT: I'm in the process of editing and reposting all chapters. I haven't done it yet, but this is just a warning. There are no real updates until you get an email saying chapter 17. :D

The crash will end it all, he thinks. The explosion in the bottom of the ocean will destroy what needs to be ruined. He carefully does not think of what he's doing personally, instead almost joking with the people on the other end of the connection. Acting as though nothing is wrong, setting dates he won't be able to keep. Serum or not, there's no way he could survive a plane crash of this size.

The bombs behind him are a heavy presence he is ever aware of, stifling and crawling forward into the little bubble he's trying to create. He grips the wheel enough to dent the metal, thinks that at one point in his life he would barely have been able to hold something this size. Thinks that, maybe the little guy was Steve Rogers, and he's not so little anymore. If he were little, he wouldn't be able to do this. He still has that same courage, or so he thinks, that got him to this point. But he's not famous for being Steve, is he? People know Captain America.

When he dies, will he ever be Steve again? 

The shock of hitting the water is enough to silence his conversation with Peggy, enough to stare at as he hits with enough force to crumple the already damaged front of the plane. It's as if he world is working in slow motion, and he has plenty of time to watch as the water doesn't enter immediately through the hole, but rises around the sides and the pressure is so immense the steel collapses and maybe it's compressing his lungs, too. In the books, the protagonist has a split second to draw a deep enough breath to stay alive when he finds a way to escape. He wasted that second watching his end begin. 

**8**

He wakes to the crippling sensation of a thousand needles crawling up and down his body, stabbing and smooth pricking in equal parts. The sensation fades, and then doubles up and he has to bite his burning tongue to hold back the cry of pain. He feels small again, like the did that one time he lost the key to his house and had to wait outside for his mother because Bucky was visiting family across the city, and it had been so very cold. It was hours before she arrived, and by then he was past shivering and into the aching stillness. She had gasped, tutted, lifted him to his unsteady feet and pushed him inside. He'd sat there, slowly warming even though the inside wasn't much better than the outside, and after the initial heat it started to hurt. 

Rather like when you lose the circulation in a limb, and it's cold until you rub it back to life and then it burns. His face, his arms, his toes, his ears, his everything is wet and on fire. Against his better judgement he opens his eyes to see. And finds himself wrong. There is no cold, no ice, no water, no shattering shards of airplane cutting into his numbing skin. He is not small, he is not Steve. 

The bombs, though, he still feels their presence. A solid thing, much like when someone is watching you and you aren't expecting it and you don't know where they are watching you from and it's a particular sort of fear, isn't it? 

He's in a room. Small, simply decorated in familiar colors and design but there is something wrong. Even from this tiny bed he can see out a window, through the sheer curtains, and he knows buildings were never this tall. The polished radio is recounting a baseball game and it sounds vaguely familiar. 

It hits him and he starts with the shock of it. Time has passed. He's been gone. Here's his chance to know if he's the Captain or Steve. (He knows the answer already.)

Why is he still alive? 

Or maybe, the cosmic cube. Maybe it took him, too, just like it took Schmidt and he just didn't know it, and it dropped him in a different reality. Or...

No.

A nurse walks in, wearing a design of clothing he's unfamiliar with. It serves as an instant register for all the other things he doesn't recognize: the smell of the paint, the feel of his own clothes and sheets, the sounds from outside... The baseball game on the radio that he's already been to.

Her voice has an unfamiliar accent and she doesn't deflect rather well, does she? He makes his escape rather quickly, finds himself in some sort of facility and savagely thinks, _I knew it. Can't trick me, you bastards._

As he sprints he does wonder what they wanted with him, and when he sees the outside world, thinks, _what were they playing at._

It's a mess of color and light and sound and people, busy in a way he's never seen. And the thing is? It's America. He's in the US and the world has moved on to new and great things. 

The prickling returns sharply, cutting off his air, and he feels eyes trained on him.

"Captain Rogers," a black man says.

He knew it.


	5. we are hateful creatures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's just take a look at Steve's life and twiddle our thumbs while we wait for plot to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the summary, guys, it's accurate. Also tag update, if that matters at all. I have a confession: I don't actually know what I'm doing when I start a chapter. So if this and all chapters have been/are/will be a fucking mess... Welp. Sorry?
> 
> Um so yeah, I get the idea that you all are on the lookout for one measure of Tony's Problems, and I'm getting to that, after the next chapter because I'm trying to have some sort of order to this and it's not working. Also, it turns out I need something resembling a plot to make the story happen. We need Steve for this, as it turns out.
> 
> Your comments, guys, they're beautiful. You're beautiful. Thank you for sticking around.

They treat him like cracked glass, fragile and unstable. There are whole floors of SHIELD's New York base decked out in forties themes, only the ones he travels most. It's not as much a comfort as they might think. Actually it's rather symbolic, because he walks out of some high tech room and into a hallway, and the familiar design is nice, but right when he starts to relax the hallway ends and oh, the walls are brushed metal, the floors false marble tiles and he's in the future, right, an obsolete icon in a spandex suit, holed up in a government building because they don't know what to do with him.

Really it does more harm than good. 

They issue him an apartment in Brooklyn, as if that'll provide some sort of closure, but it won't and he knows it, he just doesn't argue. There's no point. He's being shredded psychologically twice a week by some upstart in a suit who claims to know Steve's brain better than Steve himself. They're wrong. It's all wrong. What in his life is not wrong? 

It's the worst kind of war, the one where you battle yourself and you used to have friends, have teammates, have soldiers to help get through and get done but they aren't here now. They've all aged and gone, some recently, some sixty-six years ago because now, now it's 2010 and what is he supposed to do about that? Keep fighting, he supposes, but he wonders how it would be worth it, if he should tolerate everyone's shit and try to move on, only to realize nothing's there to move on to, or maybe realize that now, punch SHIELD in the face with that small fact, and find a way to end it all now because even if he did try, did pass his psych evals, he wouldn't be who he was, who he wants to go back to being. He wants to be Steve, or Rogers at the very least but no, he's Captain America or The Captain. 

It's times like this that he wishes he'd never become a super soldier; he enlisted to fight the war, not tear down castles full of magic and alien technology and fight people with red skulls instead of faces and end up being a popsicle for sixty-some-odd years, only for the first lucky scavenger to strike gold and melt him, just so they can use him again. He wants to be Private Rogers again, and damn everyone else. 

His war was more than sixty years ago, and the Captain can't even count how many worldwide skirmishes and acts of terrorism and other wars that the US has been involved in. It's horrific, it's disgusting, it's entirely unnecessary. And now all the once-noble nations are just trying to intimidate each other, waving around bombs and threats to get what they want, and it's honestly just kids in a sandbox with a bunch of rocks, all fighting over who has the biggest stick but hiding their hands behind their backs because no one wants the others to see and really, the thing is that none of them have a stick at all. And the US talks the loudest, argues the most, is that bossy kid who wants to play teacher when everyone else wants to be the teacher so they can boss everyone around but the US takes control anyways, yelling and screaming and taking everyone's toys when they make her mad.

America's a bitch. 

He takes trips, sometimes.

Not outside the city, no; SHIELD won't allow him that because of the potential shock, as though sticking his unconscious body in the middle of the busiest city on the continent and waiting for him to wake up and panic was a very good idea on their part. He makes the short trip to his apartment, walking because traffic, wow, that wasn't even a thing, really, where he comes from.

When he comes from.

He wanders down to coffee shops and electronics stores, buying himself a laptop and maybe denting his more than a half-century's backpay, a little. He goes to museums, up the statue of liberty, looking for old bookstores, old parks, for any bit of familiarity and finding none. He sits outside a cafe to sketch, eyeballing the skyscraper before him and thinking, it should be more futuristic. The middle of Manhattan should be bright and bold, punching the sky with the top of an impossibly tall tower that's not actually there. He uses the napkin he gets every time he visits and draws a new skyscraper design on it, holds it up to the short one before him, and is unsatisfied. It's been two months since he woke, he's been here a dozen times, and is never happy. 

He had hoped for flying cars, at least. 

When he steps inside his apartment this time, he senses something off. People have been here, probably from SHIELD because they like to come in and out like they own it, which he supposes they do but they issued this apartment to him, much like a pair of boots, and you don't go running around in each other's boots when someone's using them, do you? 

Well, he's not sure about today, but back in his time, the answer was no. People are all kinds of backwards, nowadays. 

He finds the difference on his desk: a set of files, all shiny and in color and when he looks a little closer he sees names, Jaques and Peggy and James Buchanan Barnes - 

No. He snatches up the files, consciously loosening his grip so he doesn't crush them, and stomps back out the door, pausing to lock it behind him. He and Director Fury are going to have words.


	6. Trying again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I am so glad you guys didn't mention the whole America rant. I actually have absolutely no idea where it came from, and when I told my let-me-vent-ideas-at-you-until-something-works-while-she-asks-questions-about-plot-holes girl she got this face and asked to read it, whereupon she said I should let you know that these entirely unAmerican thoughts are not my own views and all that... yknow, move to Hawaii, be an American Citizen, do not bash your nation's way of handling things. It's really not how I feel, and like I said I've got no idea where it came from so let me apologize for possibly offending someone or... Something.
> 
> Let me tell you honestly, I don't know what I'm writing for this fic until I've written it. Literally all I've got planned is "Steve, Fury, mission, Tony, somewhere cool, Mr Red, secretly Iron Man, and how does that work?" which I doubt was much of a spoiler for you, considering the summary, but if it was then sorry. 
> 
> Whew... This is the longest thing I've ever written without any real dialogue, and now the idea of two characters is, is intimidating. Jesus christ. What a nightmare. So that's why this chapter took so long. My most sincere apologies. 
> 
> I will not mention the happy dance I did on the bus upon reading your comments.

Let it be known that Captain America doesn't get angry. He gets serious, he gets stern, he gets disappointed and he gets Serious. Captain America does not march straight into a SHIELD facility and demand Director Fury, still clutching his keys and the files in either hand.

Steve Rogers does, though. Steve Rogers clears rooms upon entry, scatters junior agents and unnerves senior agents with the intensity of his furious stare - carefully not a glare, but angry all the same. Steve Rogers is quickly ushered to an elevator, escorted by agents with their hands stiffly by their sides, directed straight to Fury's office without a moment's hesitation. Steve Rogers holds his tongue with a steady calm, waiting to release his frustration on the only body who can do something about it.

Fury's office is the picture of sleek and high-tech. Grey walls, metal furniture, technology everywhere: cameras in the corners of the room, the AC unit on the wall, the printer and fax machine to the left, the laptop on his desk. 

Fury himself watches Steve as he examines the place, with a vaguely disinterested look in his eye. He seems to know when Steve is done because the moment the other man has seen his fill, he indicates a chair and Steve sits.

"I've been expecting you, Capt-" He starts, but Steve cuts him off with a raised hand. Fury raises an eyebrow but complies. 

"I'm not here as the Captain, Director," Steve says. "I'm here as Steve Rogers, and I'm here because of these." He drops the files on Fury's desk, afforded a quick glance for confirmation.

Fury, on the other hand, doesn't look at them. Instead, he keeps his gaze trained on Steve's face. "I'm not sure I understand why you're here."

"These," Steve says stiffly, "these are why I'm here."

"And why are these here?"

"I'm returning them."

"Did you read them?"

"I didn't need to."

This gives Fury pause. He seems to consider this, carefully. Steve waits with his hands fisted in his lap, unsure the other man can understand, that any man can understand the well of emotion that rises every time he thinks about his old life, how much he doesn't want to think about it.

"Why didn't you need to?" Fury asks, finally, brow furrowed and examining the profiles of all his dead friends. 

"They're dead," Steve states. 

"Not all of them."

"I don't need to know that."

"I don't understand your problem here," Fury announces, leaning back in his huge chair and crossing his arms. Steve shrugs, heart sinking just that little bit more. He was right. Nobody gets it.

He takes a deep breath. "I don't want to know about these people or their lives. Their deaths."

Suddenly it sounds very selfish. He worked with these people, befriended them, for years, and when he is forced to move on, what?

He doesn't want to look back. 

Fury lets out a breath. "You worked with the Commandos for three years, Rogers." He picks up the files and sifts through them. "You have no questions?"

Steve thinks about it, carefully. "Did any of them have families?"

Fury's eyebrow goes up again. "If you read these, you'd know." He picks through the large folder, selects three. "These boys settled down, one had kids. Still hanging around Brooklyn somewhere."

Steve glances down at the three papers, suppresses a flinch at the names. Good for them, he supposes, but this is why he didn't want to look at them.

Fury picks another paper, out of a smaller file,  sets it on top of the other three. "Howard Stark married."

Steve looks up in surprise, fights for control. This will only hurt more later. Stay calm, Rogers. "No kids?" he asks, neutrally.

Fury sighs, looks down at the file in his other hand. "He had one, named him Tony."

"Where is he now?" C'mon, Steve, really? He mentally berates himself, frustrated at his own emotions betraying his reason for coming. 

"The thing about Tony Stark is, he was the greatest weapons manufacturer America - anyone," he amends, "has ever seen. And the rest of the world knew it. He was taken in Afghanistan in 2008 and held as a prisoner of war by terrorists until their base blew up. There wasn't enough left to take home."

Steve expects to feel grief, or at least some sort of obligatory "I'm sorry for the loss" awkwardness. Instead the director's words anger him, bringing back all the dark hatred of the world back to the forefront. He desperately needs to hit something, and he'd rather not do it to Director Fury's face. He stands, leaves the files where they are, turns to leave. "Thank you for your understanding."

"Rogers."

He pauses, one hand on the door handle. 

"The world still needs Captain America."

"That's a nice sentiment," he snorts before he can stop himself, releasing more of the ugliness inside before he cam stop it. 

"It's the truth," Fury says evenly, still seated at his desk. Steve  faces him, arms crossed. "You just need someone to prove it to you. You look like you've been cooped up here for too long," he adds, pulling out another file from... from where? This one is black, the color of mission folders, and he slides it over to where Steve had been sitting. "Need to take a break. How does a little vacation sound?" 

He heaves a deep breath, turns, and takes the new folder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Guess I better change the summary, huh? Steve turned out to be much different than I'd imagined, initially. Whoops?
> 
> Okay, so next is Tony! I have so many great plans.


	7. Scratch and Restart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a crazy fucking shitstorm, I am so sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I must dedicate a solid 12% of this fic to my dear friend and co-conspirator, Chels. I tried to give her more but she wouldn't take it. She's a beautiful person who pretty much always helps me out with everything, even tolerating my endless bitching about Steve in this fic because GOD, HE IS SO HARD TO WRITE. She helps channel my thought process, because I have so many ideas and then she provides NEW ONES and sometimes I steal her little comments to use in the story, so we can basically consider her my cheerleader, advisor, inspirer, and wow hey she's my Pepper, guys. If you guys could give her a cheer, here or on ffnet (here's her url:http://www.fanfiction.net/u/1412981/) I'd appreciate it cuz damn, she deserves it. Seriously, without your support and hers, this fic would not be here.

2008

He's starting to forget what English sounds like.

There are plenty of signs and things, people who, as he passes, try to make deals or start conversations in broken, accented English. Some people are fluent, and that's alright but he establishes pretty early on that he doesn't (won't) speak the language. It never sounds right, never feels right to carry a conversation in it, not when he can't remember Happy's voice and is hanging on to the barest thread of Rhodey's.

Yinsen's, he never forgets. Yinsen is with him, all the time. He never speaks in English, anymore. For every new language Tony picks up, Yinsen matches. Sometimes his words are garbled, hesitant, or spoken in a different language instead but he catches on just as quickly as Tony does. It's a relief, he thinks, to have someone around with him all the time. He needs that to ground himself.

Pepper used to be his rock, but now he can’t remember the color of her eyes. She used to do everything for him, she was there all the time, and he misses her so much that it's a constant ache on a good day and a debilitating agony on a bad one, rendering him useless as he mourns his loss, and he can’t even remember if her eyes are blue or green. Selfish, he thinks, to miss a woman he deliberately turned away from. In order to save himself, no less. To start over, with no regard for anyone who has to deal with the aftermath.

Sudden guilt gnaws his insides. He'd never thought of it like that.

"Don't start that now, Tony," Yinsen warns, arms crossed and leaning against the wall, to his right, always to his right. "It's too late for regrets. You have more important things to worry about."

More important things, such as finding a home and a job and a name, such as leaving those regrets on trodden dust but oh, Nagpur is hardly the India they put in the pictures, is it? No dust roads here, at least not in Sitabuldi Market, the center of the city. He almost thinks of pulling out his cell phone and calling JARVIS, demanding for his AI to pull up any and all information about the land he's walking, can almost hear his friend's voice, too -

But he can't remember, and that's what ruins the scene. He's staring at a modern marketplace, with people and cars and food and goods, and he turns and slips into a back street, just a man with no name and the clothes on his back.

The road on the other side is a lot quieter, with few people and some slow moving cars. It's hot and bright and exposed, and Tony wishes for his sunglasses to protect him. But he doesn't have those, and thanks to the higher beings for his overgrown hair and beard because he honestly looks like a different person except for his eyes, but nobody ever saw his eyes because he never let them.

He feels like this situation has been coming to him for a long time.

He shoves his hands in his grey jacket pockets and slouches down the street, head at an acceptably low angle and staring at the ground as he walks. He's been here a day, using a bit too much of his money to stay in a slightly nicer hotel, and he has yet to learn the language. Marathi, it's called, but he's never heard of it. He assumes it's some sort of dialect, but it'll take a few months of full-time immersion to master (but that won't be hard, will it, because look what he's doing now).

There's a sudden outbreak of what seems to be violent cursing, in Marathi. Tony freezes up on instinct, whips around, sees the smoke. Oh god he's out of time, he steels himself for an explosion, for screams and cries and blood and death, so much death everywhere, and even though he can't feel them dying under his hands it's everywhere, they're dripping, his metal patchwork hands are covered in blood, painted red with it in the dim underground lighting and he can't move, gunshots and bones and Yinsen's face as he dies -

The smoke clears to a view of a man with rolled up sleeves, hands on his hips and glasses half sticking out of his pocket. He runs a hand through his short hair, still muttering curses in Marathi. The smoke is billowing out from the car, thick and black and was that all? Tony finds himself relaxing before he realizes his hands are shaking, and that is just too much, it was a little smoke from a car and the idiot driver, and wow, he hasn't felt a need for coffee since before he got over his caffeine withdrawal and he's about to fuck up his record, seven whole months and not a drop of coffee in sight, but right now it's a thing that he needs, and he needs it now.

Only a couple buildings up, on the opposite side of the street where the idiot paces, Tony spies the picture of a coffee cup, unmistakably Starbucks. Oh, that beautiful, glorious food chain. If he had the assets he'd be blessing that company like no tomorrow, but as it is he's glad and grateful that all he needs is to look across the street before he finds the company he once scorned.

He walks in, is immediately wooed by the smell in a way no woman could do to him, and learns his first word of Marathi. He gives them a few coins and walks out carrying his cup of kavaah, a proud man.

Coffee in his no longer trembling hand, he finds himself meandering back down the street to pass the driver and his car, which is finally done smoking. The man has ceased his cursing but is still muttering and doing a fine amount of pacing, and now he's got dirt on his arms and tools in his hands and oh, Tony is itching to touch. Those tools look shiny and new and better than his cup of Starbucks coffee, which is already half gone and still a godsend.

The man stresses and groans over his car issues while Tony stresses and chugs coffee over his sudden overwhelming need to play with the shiny new toys, not twenty feet away, and fix that poor car before the stranger breaks her. Bad stranger. But he seems to know what to do, leaning in and reaching over to the square box of the -

No, he's grabbing at the tubing. _Oh god, he's grabbing the tubing, christ, no, it's an air circulation problem, you dumb fuck -_

He doesn't realize he's moved until he's got the man's wrench in hand, berating him fiercely in Urdu with his hands (and wrench) flailing in the air. The man stares at him like he's crazy, which is totally inaccurate because this man, this man was doing it _wrong_. And Tony physically cannot stand by and watch any longer.

The stranger pits his gold-rimmed glasses back on, presumably to stare properly, and asks, "वहात आर ओउ दोइङ्ग?"

Hell if Tony knows what that means, so he answers in Dari this time, shoving the wrench and his cup of kavaah at him before turning with a huff and adjusting all the stuff this idiot fiddled with. Then he tackles the real problem.

"Tony," Yinsen warns, but Tony ignores him.

It's a simple matter of popping the quick release system, pulling the case out of the lower housing and removing the filter to clean inside the box and dust it out. Since he doesn't have an air hose or a compressor to attach the hose to, he does his best with some cloth and toweling, ripping the old filter gauze out and replacing it with the massive store of it the driver's got in his, honestly impressive, extensive repair kit. It can't even be called a kit, it's so cool.

The whole thing is cleaned and replaced in an hour, and when Tony stretches, the man he'd totally forgotten about presses his now-cold cup of coffee into his hand. Tony, surprised, chugs it and the other guy sighs quietly. He asks a question that, once again, Tony can't make heads or tails of, so he looks up at the sun reflecting off the gold and shrugs, responding absently in French as he rolls the empty cup around in his hands.

Then there's a hand at his shoulder and he jumps, heart stopping, and he smacks the hand away and pushes up to his feet, hands up and ready for a fight and oh but wait, it's just the guy. The guy whose car he'd just torn into, taking apart and polishing and putting back together without asking.

"I tried to warn you," Yinsen mutters. "I always say, do as I would do, but you're Tony S-" He pauses, reconsiders. "When have you ever listened to me?" he says finally, his exasperation dissolved in light of his mistake. Tony shrugs, allowing his tension to drop with his shoulders.

The stranger asks him something a third time and he shakes his head, not even bothering this time. Clearly their communication is a lost clause, so he inclines his head and turns to leave, his fingers still itching even though he’s returned the tools.

There’s a sharp exclamation from the man and Tony freezes, wow he’s been startling too much today, this is a completely new experience that he’s not very comfortable, seeing as the only other time he’s been surprised like this was way back with the arc reactor incident with the family who found him. The man repeats himself, softer, “एक्ष्चुसे मी,” he says, and Tony still does not know what he’s saying, but it doesn’t sound threatening so he turns with a sigh and waits for him to continue.

He looks excited, packing up his tools and talking at him while pointing to his car, and then back to the tools, and points to Tony’s pocket.

Tony was never good at charades.

The stranger sighs, gets in the car, and gestures to the seat next to him. Tony hesitates, really sort of unsure of what to do here, what do you do in a situation like this? In America, if he got in the car with somebody he didn’t know he’d be drugged and unconscious before he could put his seatbelt on. Not even funny.

“Not only Americans are capable of that,” Yinsen comments dryly, peering into the car from the open passenger seat window. “This car is nice. I always wanted a Lexus, but for obvious reasons,” and here he looks amused, “such as my job choice and,” now a grimace, “recent events, as recent as a year ago can be, I couldn’t get one.”

Tony snorts. Right. “Do you have any idea what he’s saying?” he asks, quietly, and even though he’s on the other side of the car he is heard only by Yinsen.

“I didn’t get any college experience in Guesstures,” is the response. “I’d say, though, maybe, that he wants you to get in the car. Perhaps he’s going to take you somewhere?”

“Oh god, you’re another JARVIS,” Tony grumbles, then feels terrible.

“Well,” Yinsen levels him a look across the hood of the waiting man’s car, “what else is on your schedule?”

That gives him pause. Well.

Yinsen smiles, his lenses flashing in the sun. “Get to it, young man.”

That earns the man an eyeroll, but he complies. Why the hell not, right?

The inside is cool and comfortable, and the stranger is looking at him like he doesn’t know what to think but still drives off, turning a maze of corners and passing a lot of colorful places. They pull to a stop in front of what is, obviously, a mechanic’s shop. An auto mechanic’s shop.

Oh, it must be his lucky day.

He’s led inside, practically vibrating with excitement but somehow keeping a lid on it, and maybe it’s the solid warmth of Yinsen’s hand on his shoulder. The guy he drove in with calls out, and this huge guy appears from a back room, tall and muscles and tan skin, welding goggles and thick gloves and greasy overalls and Tony may die of want.

They have a rapid discussion, glancing at him and gesturing the car, and he just stands there and waits, still clutching his empty cup with some small part of his brain attempting to will coffee to appear in it, well aware that having just the one cup was a terrible idea, oh god, he’s going to have a headache the whole rest of the day. The conversation is showing no signs of stopping, so he goes to find a bin to discard his cup, which at this point is just taunting him.

There’s no bin in any obvious places so he wanders off into the real thick of the shop, heavy chains and saws and a solid wall of well-loved tools, and cars supported five feet off the ground to get at the underneath, hopelessly dirty floors and a spill of grease and oil over everything vaguely cloth-like and Tony loves it, loves it so much. He forgets about the cup and instead opts to investigate properly, poring over engines and ducking under hanging tires, having the best time in a way that seems slightly different from when he had a family with the caravan.

Then he sees the tiny little carburetor, half dismantled and sparkly clean, and resolutely doesn’t shriek in excitement, but it’s a close thing. More of a strangled, nasty sound of desperate need. Fuck the coffee cup, he doesn’t even know where it is anymore, his hands need to be in the guts of that, right now.

He surfaces an hour later, after meticulously cleaning every piece and putting it back together. His eyes are aching slightly, because hey, small parts and no magnifying glass, but he’s still grinning like an idiot and his hands are still itching for more, so why not find the beauty this belongs to?

Instead, he runs into the big guy and the stranger, who by the way is totally at least two inches shorter than Tony himself so it’s a little odd, tech in hand and grease on his face.

Oops.

“One would think you might have a modicum of self-control, Tony,” Yinsen sighs, turning away from the other two men and crossing his arms in a very disappointed way. Tony ignores him, because if it mattered that much he would have stepped in.

“I did,” Yinsen says, frowning. “You did your best impression of a creature with no ears.”

Oh. Alright, then.

The big guy is staring at him. He offers up the carburetor, the man takes it, and he feels slightly disappointed, because he wanted to see it work.

Big guy asks stranger a sharp question, receives a nod in return, and turns back to Tony.

“What’d you do?” he asks, in Urdu. Oh, hey, cool, communication.

“I cleaned it, and put it back together,” Tony says, because really that’s it, he’s pretty sure. Yinsen huffs behind him and Tony does his best impression of a creature with no ears again.

“Mhm,” says the big guy, skepticism clear in his voice, and gestures for Tony to follow.

That is exactly how he gets a job in Nagpur, India.

 A solid two months pass. Being a mechanic is a well-paying job, and he gets an apartment nearby. The shop is like his security blanket, and he practically lives there rather than his actual home. The big guy, Sarvankar, lets him stay in the shop after hours, no overtime, to mess around with everything as he likes, so long as the place stays secure. Tony is allowed to cannibalize any obsolete parts he wants for his “secret project”, and yes, he abuses the privilege, but Sarvankar lets him, so it’s okay. The Starbucks a couple streets over knows him well, and his second cup is always something new (his first is coffee so black it could melt the roof off your mouth and he loves it). He’s almost fluent with the language now, his boss has been helping him out on that end, and everybody sort of knows him, at least as that guy with the two-layer shirts in this heat, he must be crazy.

Tony is at peace.

He’s walking down the street with some froofy frappuccino he enjoys a little too much, it might have to be a check on the have-another list, in one hand and half a car door in the other when it happens. An entourage of cars comes down the street, drawing curious looks from passersby, with a limo in the center and he feels like someone just dumped a bucket of freezing water over the warmth of his new life because that, that’s a Stark Industries limo and –

Ah.

That’s a Stane Industries limo, and Pepper Potts is getting out to go to the Starbucks he just left. The pain is sharp and sudden, like a whip, like when he was still healing and couldn’t move too much or he’d reopen a stitch around the reactor by stretching wrong and it would hurt, so much, not there and then suddenly everything he knew as he tried to breathe through it, waiting for it to go away and it didn’t, not for a long time, until Yinsen was able to calm him back down and help.

The man himself is trying to speak to him now as he stands there in the middle of the sidewalk, frozen, staring at Miss Potts as she disappears into the shop. Yinsen’s hands are at his shoulders, shaking him, but he doesn’t really feel anything until Sarvankar’s huge hand slaps him on the back and he drops his frappuccino.

“Acervi?” he asks, looking concerned. Tony turns wide eyes to him and keeps staring, still seeing, unable to believe. “Hey, Acervi. Focus.”

Tony blinks and looks down at the mess on the ground, nodding, numb. Raw, but numb.

“Are you alright?” Sarvankar asks intently, hands on his shoulders where Yinsen’s were moments ago.

“Yes,” he answers, and it comes out as a rasp. His grip on the chunk of car door is painful. "Yes," he says again, clearer this time. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Sarvankar observes, releasing his shoulders and taking the car part from him. "We got a new customer, some idiot with an Audi who doesn't know how to drive. Come down and take a look?"

The helpless snort is a kneejerk reaction. "Fuck," Tony says, following, "foreigners and their damn cars." Giving up on his coffee as a lost cause, he tosses it in a garbage bin in the alley as they pass it. 

"Still no clue where you're from?" Sarvankar asks, not quite sympathetic, but perhaps understanding.

"Amnesia's a bitch," Tony replies, sighing. 

"I would've thought that, whatever that was back there might mean you'd remembered something."

"I wish."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Alright."

Tony hides in the office when they get there, agreeing to calm down and come back out in a few minutes. Pepper's profile is burned on the backs of his eyelids, the new Stane Industries logo, the limo. That was his, once. Now he works in an auto shop in India. Neither are horrible lives, really, so he doesn't understand the surge of resentment, directed at whom or what, he doesn't know, and he's floundering trying to figure out where it belongs, so he can push it aside and help the poor moron outside but he can't because the unknown is a terrible thing.

"Tony," Yinsen starts, and Tony rounds on him.

"Why don't you call me Acervi here, too?" 

His look is unreadable. "Why don't you call yourself Acervi?" When Tony can't answer, he continues, "Because you're really not. You're still Tony Stark, whether you like it or not, whether he's dead or alive. Be Acervi all you like, but you know who you are."

Ah, so that's where all the resentment goes. 

"I'm behind on my project," Ton - Acervi announces. "I gotta go work on it after this idiot with the Audi."

"Give it up, Tony," Yinsen says. "Your ruse isn't fooling me. I know you better than you do."

"You never help," Tony says, and closes the office door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the fuck happened here. I have no idea where this shit comes from, and wow I don't even think I wanna go over this again. What the hell, seriously.
> 
> Guess what the secret project is. Guess, I dare you.


	8. And here we go again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YOU WERE ALL WRONG, HAHAHAHAHA.  
> Except you weren't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I wonder where the everloving fuck this story is going. Like, really. What am I doing here? Does this fic even make sense? Seriously. I think I'm good, got a plot and a Pepper to make it work and then one of you turns this shit around on its head with a good idea and I'm left flailing with a burning need to make it happen. Damn you, you perfect people. I love you all.
> 
> Ok how is this over 10k already didn't I start this like last week?

"I'm not sure," the guy admits with a shrug, casually leaning against the wall. "I mean, SI do their best to keep track, but we're a huge company now, all across the world - that's what we're doing here, after all. Seeing if we can set up camp here, build a tower."

Tony freezes momentarily, overcome by horror for one terrible moment - not long enough for the Stane Industries (and damn, but that stings) employee, aka idiot Audi driver, to notice, but Sarvankar does. Casually as he can, he leans a little further in under the hood and fiddles with something in a vague attempt to make it look like he's working. Honestly he's replaced the piston rings already, so it'll stop burning up the oil - idiot should never have let the level drop that low, everyone knows Audis eat their oil like a six-year-old with candy - and now he's listening in for something good on the new SI, but the man's useless. With a sigh, he leans back and brushes ineffectually at the dirt on the knees of his ratty jeans, dropping the tools and stretching. The foreigner (and when did Tony start considering himself local? He's only been here two months) is still bragging relentlessly and, quite frankly, it's painful to hear.

"Audis are shit," he announces in Marathi, and Sarvankar glances at him and laughs. The SI employee looks vaguely nervous.

"What'd he say?" he demands, and Tony grins.

"Why the hell even did he take one to India, for shit's sake?" he continues. "Does he not care at all? Or is it the company's new policy?"

"It may have been the policy all along," Sarvankar notes with narrowed eyes, suddenly taking on a calculating expression, and Tony realizes his mistake. "Did you fix it?"

"Yeah," he says, rolling his eyes. "Man coulda done it himself if he had enough brains."

"Acervi," Sarvankar warns, and turns back to the customer, resuming their conversation in English. "He says he's fixed it, and it should run fine with - "

"Tell him to get the oil changed every couple weeks!" Tony calls from the back of the shop, where he's retreated from Sarvankar's Stern Gaze.

"With an oil change every two to three weeks," he finishes, as though Tony had never spoken. Tony suppresses a shiver, slightly unnerved at the precise manner in which Sarvankar speaks English. He doesn't make mistakes, having little accent and always using the correct terminology, and it's honestly a little frightening and Tony still doesn't like the sound of the language. None of it is right.

He wastes a moment wondering if Pepper's voice would sound right, but then he can't remember it anyways, so there's no point bothering.

"Two weeks?" The customer's voice just rose a couple decibels, he's sure of it. "But that's -"

"Exactly what must be expected out of this car," Sarvankar finishes, sounding rather serious. The man sighs in assent, and Tony relaxes, picking up a chunk of car part and heading over to the forge. When he sees the orange of the fire, however, his mind moves away from his intentions and onto

_Pepper, Pepper, Pepper_

He saw her today. She didn't know he was there but he saw her, and she looked tired. He wonders what her role in SI is now, wonders if she got his Malibu home the way he willed it, wonders if JARVIS is still functional, wonders how Rhodey's doing, wonders what they'd say if they knew what he is going to do now. It hurts, like a thousand stab wounds, a deep seated ache, a slow burn to hell, thinking about them, about his old life, and who he is now.

Who is he now?

"Isn't that obvious?" Yinsen stands in the shadows, sleeves rolled up as always, glasses reflecting light. Tony wonders if he took his glasses off, would there be light behind the lenses, too? He misses the man's kind eyes.

"Well, I can see," Yinsen answers his silent question, "but, one way to find out." He reaches up.

"नो!" Tony lunges forward and tries to knock the other man's hand away, but his own passes through him. Yinsen looks vaguely surprised, his hand dropping back to his side.

"You wanted to know." He pauses. "I suppose you don't."

"No," Tony says through gritted teeth, "I don't." And what does that say about him?

"It's alright," Yinsen says gently. "I don't want to know, either."

**8**

"You alright?" Tony startles at the sound of Sarvankar's voice, dropping his wrench and cursing as it flattens a quarter inch steel cylinder he'd just pulled from the forge.

"Yep," he says lightly, "I'm good."

"I heard you talking back here," Sarvankar says, beefy arms crossed over his chest. He is trying not to tower over Tony sitting on his little stool, but it's hard when you're one of the biggest men around, Tony supposes.

"To myself," Tony sighs, rubbing his forehead. He wonders how much that is true. "I'm getting frustrated." Definitely true. All this damn delicate work, his hands aren't steady enough, and now he's distracted.

"Well, you scared the shit out of the Audi driver," Sarvankar informs him, "with your yelling and all. What was that about?"

"Left something in the forge for too long," Tony says. Certainly a lie.

"You should be careful," Sarvankar sighs, looking around.

"The bricks will keep the fire from burning a hole in the ground," Tony assures him, "and the steel plate will make sure it doesn't get out of control."

"If you're sure," his boss replies. "I don't know anything about homemade forges."

"They're better than professional ones." Tony grins. "Ir you make it yourself, you make it right."

"If you're sure," he repeats, with a hint of doubt.

"Oh, c'mon," Tony scoffs, waving a hand. "If there's one thing you can trust me on, it's that I won't do anything stupid."

"That is true," Sarvankar agrees.

**8**

It's finally finished. Tony leans back with a sigh, stretching cramped muscles and shaking them loose. The suit hangs from numerous chains above him, not yet put together but he's tested it and the limbs all function beautifully individually. The best way to make sure it all works together, of course, is to try it out.

"This was easier when you were able to help," he complains, only half actually whining as he attaches the parts carefully. Yinsen chuckles and puts a hand on the chest piece, a lot sleeker than the first one left in the desert.

"I wish I could," he says, and it sounds like the truth. "It looks a lot better than the first."

It does. The suit is a polished, shiny silver, more fitted to his body and so much lighter. The weight should be a cause for concern, seeing how lighter metals are, as a general rule, much weaker than, say, what his missiles are made of. But car parts are the best he had - the suit is made of two separate cars' worth of condensed metal, all the paint removed and the seams as faint as he could make them. The heads-up display is simple; too simple, perhaps, for what he's planning to do, but he doesn't have J-

He doesn't have any outside assistance, he thinks firmly, and therefore has to run everything himself. It will be taxing, but worth it to see his success. The repulsors work, even while he can't build any good weaponry for himself, and he's got the flamethrowers attached to his back now, between the flaps, so he thinks he'll he alright.

He's nervous.

"Go out there and do what you need to do," says Yinsen. Tony takes his words to heart.

"Right," he says, nodding firmly through the faceplate. His repulsors whine as they start up and Yinsen waves.

He's out the garage doors and gone. The building shrinks below him and the rest of the city follows suit and he's flying, he really is, and he whoops and spins and dances figure eights in the sky and it's all so perfect. It's a little chilly through his layers and the suit but that's alright, because he's flying and he's moving, faster than he ever has before, and he's feeling more than the mundane, than the every day could ever give him and he needed this, and Tony is free.

Free.

It takes two hours to cross borders, to get to where he needs to be. Afghanistan is dark, it's awfully early in the morning, about two back in Nagpur and sometime early over here. The stars are out, shining over the desert and maybe if he reached, he could touch the moon.

His systems lock on Starktech (is it Stanetech now? No, his designs, his name, and that's that) a couple of miles to his right and he's there in just under a minute. There's a vague shadow of a terrorist camp below him. Tony wonders if they're sleeping. If they'll even see him coming. If they'll even know they've died.

As he descends upon them, he thinks maybe his promise to not do anything stupid was a lie, too.

Can you put a hole in a car door with an M9? As it happens, the answer is yes.

They come streaming out of tents and holes in the ground and from the shadows, armed and screaming, whether in rage or in agony as Tony lights them all up.

Fire. Fire. Gunfire and chemical fire and the fire in his body, crawling along in his veins. The rush is beyond heady, it's fantastic, and none of these poor fuckers stand a chance, ever hoped to stand a chance. The world is now alight, it's daytime even with the stars, and Tony has never, _never_ , felt so alive.

Flying has nothing on this.

There's a loud booming sound and Tony feels an intense pressure a split second before that pressure shoves him sideways and oh, that was a rock wall. His ears ring and he gets unsteadily to his feet, vision blurring and a sudden headache viciously sabotaging his ability to think properly. There's something wet on his face and it takes a long moment to think, _blood_ , but by the time he's processed this the remaining terrorists have advanced upon him, and their bullets are leaving brutal bruises but he's got two layers of car between him and them, so if he can just move his arms -

Machine guns and rifles alike all turn on him, and through the too-bright haze he feels his suit denting, pushing against his skin and holding tight and it hurts. The pain, though, is nothing to the shock of being shot.

He feels it coming to him: the strain of the metal at one of the weaker plates of his shoulders, the groan of metal under pressure, the snap as one bullet finally penetrates. It's a sort of detached feeling, and at first it doesn't actually hurt. An abrupt chill, perhaps, a sudden void of feeling.

But then, just as quickly, all his fire inside leaks out through the hole and he gasps, feels the hot drain in red, cannot move.

Frozen.

It serves as a sort of trigger, he thinks, even as he topples sideways, clutching at his wounded shoulder and cursing profusely in seven languages, none of them English. The fire pauses as they wonder if they win. Shouted commands in a dozen languages around him and he forces his eyes open (when did they close?) at the nudge of the butt of a gun on his thigh.

It's exactly what he needs.

He reaches up, aims, and fires a repulsor straight in the bastard's face. The look of surprise is melted right off in a flash of light, and the body trails fluid and skin as it falls. Tony heaves himself to his feet, stares at the cauterized hole, fires again. There is no sound now.

As one, the terrorists heft their guns and aim, but Tony is faster. Rapid fire repulsor shots take out guns, incinerate arms and heads and chunks of shoulder and it's raining, but it's not water, it's sand and blood and flesh and bone and Tony revels in it, the way they reveled in his pain. When he's done shooting them all, his head is spinning and his arm is still bleeding flames and he's taken a bit of a beating and he'a killed them all. This, this is the part where he gears up and brings out the fire again. Manic, wild, infuriated, he turns and burns it all to ash. There's almost no switch from "person" to "weapon" because with the Ten Rings insignia on it? It doesn't matter to him.

"Tony." A voice, amongst the blood and the death and his own high-pitched gasps, catches his attention and he turns to see Yinsen standing by the missile stash. "Tony, stop it. You've killed them all."

"I what?" He realizes the man is right, that not all the blood spattered across the once-silver armor is his. "Oh." His voice is hoarse, and it hurts to speak. He used it all up. "Get outta the way," he continues, "I gotta blow it all to hell."

"No you don't." Even now, amongst all the destruction, Yinsen is still calm. "This is why I still call you Tony Stark."

He flinches, horribly, staggering back a step when all his aches and wounds flare up. "Why?"

"Because Tony Stark is the Merchant of Death," he quotes. "And what are you doing now?"

Suddenly, he is just so, very tired. "Right," he mumbles, voice lost over the crackle of fire and the moans of the few still dying.

"You should take these," and here Yinsen waves at the Starktech behind him, "and use them to make you a better suit. You're looking a little beat up."

"That I am," he sighs, clomping over to stare at the boxes. STARK INDUSTRIES, the decals scream at him. The words burn. "So what, just walk away with them?"

"I was hoping you'd fly," Yinsen says. "Walking isn't the best idea."

"I wouldn't make it far," Tony says truthfully.

"I think not," Yinsen agrees. "Go on, pick some up, and get flying."

The flight back is so much longer than the flight there, and the sun is rising right in Tony's face. He drops back into Nagpur with an armload of Starktech (he hasn't been thinking these things through recently) and enters the shop, depositing them behind the long-cooled forge. Not a good hiding spot, but by general law nobody fucks with Acervi's corner. He can rely on that, for now. He removes his armor and cringes at the black smearing and bullet holes, imagines how much of that is reflected on his own body.  It stays on the ground where he drops it in twisted fragments.

His apartment has one mirror, full-length, in the kitchen of his two-room apartment. He makes sure to lock the door behind him, strips, and stares.

He is covered in bruises, almost literally. A curving cut spans across from his left collarbone around the reactor, down to the bottom right of his ribcage, by the last floating rib. There's serious inflammation around the reactor, swollen and red and painful to the touch - what happened there? Various cuts and bruises, a network of purples and blues and reds.  Then there's the hole through his shoulder, still bleeding sluggishly and almost invisible through the dirt and drying blood, and it looks the worst, worse than his black eye and bruised jaw, than the sheet of flaking brown forcing his eye half closed by proximity to the slash on his forehead. It's not even big, hardly larger than his pinky, but it's obviously the worst. And he can't exactly walk over to a hospital with no medical coverage, can he?

He curses softly to himself and limps over to his closet of a bathroom, taking all his towels and the first aid stuff with him.

**8**

"Can't come?" Sarvankar echoes at nine in the morning. "But you're right here. And what happened to you?"

"Got mugged." Tony attempts a shrug but flinches instead as the starting movement tugs at the bullet wound. Sarvankar's frown deepens.

"Is it more serious than it looks?" he asks. Tony waves his arm vaguely, which hurts, but it’s easier than shrugging, so he’ll take what he can get.

“I got a hole in my shoulder,” he says with a grin with enough manic energy that even he can feel it in the twitching strain of his muscles. Sarvankar looks alarmed.

“And you still came?” he asks incredulously, uncrossing his arms (an unusual change from his default) and reaching over to the side Tony is clearly favoring. “Why?”

“Well, first, because I wanted to tell you in person and I don’t have a phone,” Tony says reasonably. “Second, because they stole my laptop from me so I came here to get the one from my corner.”

“Ah.” His friend (dare he call him that?) relaxes and waves him off, but still has a gleam of worry in his dark eyes. “Take a few weeks, alright? Make sure the clinic sees you.”

“I promise.” Tony grins and disappears behind the curtains and chains to his section of the shop, snatching up his laptop. The little bell on the door nobody uses in favor of the open garage entrance chimes on the front and he wonders if it’s the Audi idiot again, back for that oil change every two weeks he said he’d get but probably won’t. He slips out between the curtains and calls out a thanks to his boss, ready to sneak out and go home to sleep for, like, a thousand years or maybe ten hours before getting to work on the new suit, because wow the one he’d used this morning is beyond trashed.

Then he hears the visitor.

“- here to pay for Mr Macintosh, the man who came with his Audi two weeks ago.”

“Ah, Miss Potts?” That’s Sarvankar.

“The one and only.” Pepper sounds tired, as tired as she looked when he first saw her at that Starbucks he hasn’t dared to enter since he did. He finds himself turning the corner and when he sees her, he drops his laptop. Both their heads snap up to look at him and he ducks, bending down quickly to pick his computer back up – bad move, as it turns out, too sudden and he ends up freezing in place on one knee, waiting for the pain to pass. Sarvankar is over there quickly, helping him to his feet and picking up his laptop for him.

"Wow, that was embarrassing," Tony gasps, letting himself be steadied as he catches his breath. "Fuck. Thanks."

The bald man hands him back the computer and lets go slowly. "You need to rest, Acervi. Do you want me to get someone to help you home?" 

"Hell, no," Tony says immediately. "That is too much."

Sarvankar chuckles. "Maybe so, but I worry all the same."

"How kind," Tony grumbles halfheartedly, but doesn't get to continue because suddenly Pepper is there. 

"Are you okay?" she asks, sounding worried, and Tony can't help but look up at her face, except when he does they both still. His heart stops at that moment and he sees oh, her eyes are green, and neither of them can stop staring at each other and she knows, oh, she knows, but so does he and he thinks that maybe he can reach out and touch her, that he can go back in time, to before he realized what a shit person he was and just hold her - 

"Tony?" she whispers, voice wrecked and eyes full of tears. 

He snaps back into focus and leans back. "I'm sorry," he says in stiff Marathi. "I don't speak English."

Her breath catches and there's something terribly sad, gut-wrenching in her eyes. "What did he say?" she asks, her voice trembling. 

Sarvankar has the most hurt expression on his face, like it pains him to answer. "He apologizes for not being able to speak English, Miss Potts," he says slowly. "This man's name is not Tony. He is Dante Acervi, my cousin and coworker."

"Oh," she says, ever so quietly, and it breaks his heart to hear. She takes a step back and resumes her professional calm. "I'm terribly sorry. I must have been mistaken." She turns away. "I've just been seeing him everywhere," she adds, in the smallest voice, like no one was meant to hear but her. Tony hears, though. He hears, and it hurts worse than anything he's ever felt. 

"I've got to get home," he says, finally accepting the laptop from Sarvankar. "I'll come by. Don't let anyone touch the stuff in my corner."

"Of course not," he says with good humor, but the sorrow in his gaze burns. "I'll see you in a few days, Acervi. Goodbye." 

"Bye." He walks, straight-backed, past Pepper and out the door, down the street, up the stairs to his apartment, behind the door. The second he locks the door behind him he slides down the panel of wood and cries. 

He spends very little time doing so; these last few weeks have been too emotionally draining for him to really be able to do more than wring out the old washrag. Besides, he's T - a guy, and guys don't just break down crying like that (Yinsen snorts somewhere above him but is ignored). Instead he lurches to his feet and stumbles over to the couch, flicking the laptop on and typing in the password without really looking. 

There's a message waiting for him, on an unfamiliar chat program.

  MR. GREEN -- Nice flying suit. You made the news in Brazil.

Tony sucks in a breath. Okay. Well. This was a possibility he thought through, very thoroughly. Right. He flexes his fingers on the keys and picks a corresponding name. 

   MR. RED -- So you're in Brazil?  
   MR. GREEN -- So you're in Afghanistan?  
   MR. RED -- Close, but no cigar.  
   MR. GREEN -- Funny. Look, I can see that you, whoever you are, are good with tech. I just need some help on that end.

Tony considers this. Carefully. Whoever this Green guy is, he must be smart, to find him. Who's he working with? What's he doing? How badly could this turn out? His mind flashes to Pepper and he shoves it away.

   MR. RED -- What can I do to help?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say for myself, especialy involving the fact that this ENTIRE chapter was so awkward. Ohgod.


	9. this is how it begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce, Tony, quit being such snarky assholes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These author's notes are getting long, so I'll keep it short this time: when I talk about this fic with others, I call it rustfic cuz I'm too lazy to say the whole thing every time.

2010  
  
   MR. RED -- What the hell is this weirdass chemical, though.  
   MR. GREEN -- It's a very rare paralytic, one of the few that I've discovered that has the ability to contain the  
   MR. RED -- I dunno, looks a lot like a toxin to me, String Bean.  
   MR. GREEN -- Don't call me that, please.  
   MR. RED -- Okay, Lima Bean.  
   MR. GREEN -- Can you not.  
   MR. RED -- But you and your cells are all bean-like, and green, it's perfect.  
   MR. GREEN -- It is not perfect and neither I nor my cells are bean-like in any way.  
   MR. RED -- Would you rather I go with Pea, then? Sweet pea?  
   MR. GREEN -- How would you like it if I started calling you red names?  
   MR. RED -- Please do, go ahead.  
   MR. GREEN -- Okay. Red Riding Hood, Pepper, Chili...  
   MR. RED -- Not the pepper one.  
   MR. GREEN -- Not the bean ones, then.  
   MR. RED -- Okay: Cucumber, Sour Apple, Broccoli, Lettuce Leaf, Wasabi, Pickl  
   MR. GREEN -- Bean names are fine.  
   MR. RED -- Yes! Green Bean it is.  
   MR. GREEN -- Are you ten.  
  
The weird thing about this is, their conversations are in English.  
  
It's not a trial to force himself to read Mr Green's words, nor is it difficult to respond in kind. He hit it off with this random country-hopping stranger immediately, and it's totally routine for them to backhack each other every time they talk. Green is in a new country every few months, if not weeks, while Green himself has narrowed Tony's location down to the very city he lives in. That is impressive, after only, what, a year? of communicating with him.  
  
Basically, Tony loves talking to the guy.  
  
   MR. RED -- I could be some hot busty blonde, or some horny gay teenager jacking off to our awesome science. You never know.  
   MR. GREEN -- But see, when you say things like that, I just know you're some lonely middle-aged man with no sense of maturity.  
   MR. RED -- You wound me.  
   MR. GREEN -- Not as bad as you hurt yourself. How many cracked ribs?  
   MR. RED -- None, fuck you very much. The suit is awesome. I am awesome. I am god.  
   MR. GREEN -- You keep telling yourself that.  
   MR. RED -- They call me Iron Man for a reason, even if they're entirely wrong about the fact that it's not actually iron. Dear sweet uneducated babies.  
  
He's just not sure how much longer he can.  
  
    MR. GREEN -- I have a favor to ask.  
    MR. RED -- As if I'm not building you new laptops or cool tech every few months?  
    MR. GREEN -- Yes, and thank you for that, but this is different.  
    MR. RED -- Go on.  
    MR. GREEN -- I need a sample of your bloo  
    MR. RED -- No.  
    MR. GREEN -- I thought you might say that.  
    MR. RED -- I assume it's so you can have a regular source of untainted blood to compare notes with?  
    MR. GREEN -- Generally.  
    MR. RED -- I'm sorry, I can't help you.  
    MR. GREEN -- What did you do.  
    MR. RED -- Nothing! Willingly. It's just a thing. That happened.  
    MR. GREEN -- A thing that happened. It wouldn't happen to involve experimenting on yourself, would it?  
    MR. RED -- It would not.  
  
They have similar discussions often - every time Tony lets something slip about his physical health (and Green is some kind of doctor, apparently), it turns into some sort of interrogation and Tony wants to hide, to not talk about it. Period. It's rather difficult, actually, to talk about his health and not talk about the arc reactor. So much of him revolves around it.  
  
Such as his newest problem. Possibly his last.  
  
    MR. RED -- Let's talk about why you're so hell-bent on shooting toxic chemicals into your bloodstream at the slightest rise in your heart rate. I wanna talk about that.  
    MR. GREEN -- It's not something simple to understand, I can't just explain it to you.  
    MR. RED -- So it has something to do with your radiation poisoning, then?  
    MR. GREEN -- In a way. Look, it's complicated.  
    MR. RED -- How?  
    MR.  GREEN -- Nobody likes me angry. I don't like me angry.  
    MR. RED -- That doesn't sound so complicated to me.  
    MR. GREEN -- There's more to it than that.  
    MR. RED -- What, it's not like you turn into some, I dunno, giant green rage monster, or something, so why would  
    MR. GREEN --  
    MR. RED --  
    MR. RED -- You're shitting me.  
    MR. GREEN -- I think it's about time we meet in person.  
  
So, there's that.  
  
He closes his laptop and sets it aside, onto what is essentially a panel of wood supported by a couple bricks (aka his side table), to stretch. He eases up slightly on the left side, the tug of scar tissue making the movement of his shoulder slightly awkward. Thankfully it's one of only three knots of scarring, the other two on his left thigh (that had been fun) and more recently just to the right of his navel (some anonymous donor handled the hospital bill for him, a fact that still unnerves him). He carefully ignores the pull in his chest, the tightness in his lungs, the flaring sensitivity along his arms and torso as distended veins brush fabric.  
  
Well, work's in a half hour. He tugs on a long sleeved shirt, then a black shirt over that, making sure every inch of his chest is covered, and his arms down to just past his wrists - it doesn't reach there quite yet, but it's getting close. He's read that, when it reaches the tips of his fingers, he's dead. It's a rather grim future, he decides as he leaves his apartment, door locked behind him and a towel over his shoulders. A countdown to the end of his days. It's been slow moving this last year, so maybe he's got a few months before he keels over. As to how much time he's got before he can't get up anymore...  
  
 _Maybe one more big weapons bust_ , he thinks, _before I go out._  
  
**8**  
  
"Good morning, Sarvankar," he calls, striding into the auto shop with a grin in place. Sarvankar peeks out from the guts of a massive engine.  
  
"It's afternoon, Acervi," he corrects, returning the smile before disappearing again.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. I'll just go grab the lineup." He knows. He totally knows, but he has the good grace to roll with it and pretend that Dante Acervi, the guy with amnesia working in his auto shop, is in no way Tony Stark.  
  
"You were saying last year that you weren't Tony Stark," Yinsen pipes up from the office door. "What made you change your mind?"  
  
"Shut it," he mutters, snatching a clip board off a nail on the wall. The papers list off the different appointments for the day and he chooses the 1330, some truck with transmission problems. This'll be a good distraction.  
  
**8**  
  
The black lines of poison reach the first wrinkle of skin at his wrist. It hurts to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, one more Tony chapter before we go back to Steve. I was all worried about making you guys wait, because I know how much I hate to wait, so I split this chapter in… probably what will end up being, this is one third and chapter 10 is the other two thirds. I wasn’t done with this chapter but felt I’d waited too long, so have this until I finish up the next bit in a day or two. Tell me what you think? You know how comments make me feel.


	10. dried up hopes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In truth, Chels and I finished this chapter on Saturday. She acted as Bruce-in-the-flesh, because apparently if he's not an anonymous chat user I can't write him. But that's not the point. The point is, I fear my drive for writing this fic is failing. If it dies completely, I may never write another chapter again. Proof of this can be found in Simply Blue, a Homestuck fic I haven't truly updated since September. Once I reached about the same amount of words as I have this time... Well. Here's hoping I see you all in chapter eleven, with Steve (sometime this century!).

2011

Each day is met with a deep-seated ache through his bones. It's a difficult feeling to explain to himself, because it's an odd sort of pain he'd never felt before. It doesn't just turn his limbs to lead, or sear like a stab or a bullet, but also travels through his veins, throbbing sluggishly, a muted fire, like lava, invasive like he's never experienced. Certain exercises and sudden movements aggravate it, and he's learned not to sit still for too long, because any movement for an hour after leaves him nauseous and light headed but he has to walk through it to look normal.

It can't be hidden under a shirt anymore. The nausea turns into a lack of appetite, so he doesn't eat. To wake up after a night's sleep is to be stiff and sore all day, so he's resorted to quick catnaps. He gets migraines. His joints ache. He can feel every touch to the raised black lines that crawl out from the reactor housing, over his shoulders, down to his navel, reaching through the veins in his arms to take his hand. Every cold and stomach bug in India has crossed paths with him these last few months, leaving him with a perpetual cough that burns like a hot poker in a thousand places every time he lurches. What food he does manage to eat, much of the time ends up coming back up.

Tony is miserable, and anyone with eyes can see it, can tell it's more than the frequent chills he keeps catching.

Sarvankar asks only once if he needs a doctor, and when Tony says no, never mentions it again. It's there, though, his worry and sadness, hidden behind his casual conversation, peering out in his eyes past the good humor. He's realized by now that it's terminal, Tony knows he has. But there's nothing either of them can do, and his friend is jus a little slow in accepting this simple fact. Tony forges forward, infamous across the continent as Iron Man, popular across the city as Acervi the mechanic.

Stane Industries hates him, a fact which Tony takes no small amount of pride in.

There's one large cell left, practically sitting on the border of Pakistan. Tony's gathered up enough Starktech to repair his suit as needed over the year and a half he's been flying. Yinsen's pulled him out of... sort of, flashbacks, more times than he can count. It's gotten to the point where it's just, find terrorists, blow terrorists up, make a show, and disappear back to India, where he licks his wounds and pretends to be normal again.

Tony waves to Sarvankar as he heads back to his corner, fully intending to jump into the armor the minute the other man leaves (what will he do, when he finds Tony's body?) but a tinny knocking sound at the entrance to the shop gives him pause.

The man hovering just outside is dressed in darker colors, a faded navy button-up and slacks. He's got a watch - or is it one of those special ones that have a monitor - and nicer shoes, scuffed as they may be. Wavy brown hair, combed into submission, greying at the temples, yet the cut suits his slightly round face. His glasses are slightly crooked, obviously well-used.

Tony knows exactly who it is.

"Excuse me," the stranger says in English, "can I - ?"

He sees Tony and, in that moment, he understands. Tony can see it all over his face.

"Would you mind answering a question?" The query is not directed at Tony, but rather at Sarvankar, who shrugs and agrees. "What is your favourite color?"

   MR. GREEN -- I'll come up with something off the wall, it'll be obvious.  
   MR. RED -- When will I be seeing you?  
   MR. GREEN -- Whenever I find you.  
   MR. RED -- Fair enough.

"Hm... Blue," Sarvankar answers, perfect English as always. "Is this a survey?"

"Absolutely," Mr. Green says. "I'm from Kolkata, actually, I work in an orphanage. When I said I was traveling they asked me to come up with an unusual question to ask everyone I saw. Last time it was favourite animals," he says with a shy grin. He turns to Tony. "What's yours?"

"Ah - " Tony shifts nervously. Of course the man would expect him to speak English, he can write it just fine.

"Acervi doesn't speak English," Sarvankar puts in. "But I can translate?"

"Oh, uh, thank you." Now he looks desperately confused, because they both know who Tony is, but of course Tony has to make things difficult.

"Hey, Acervi, what's your favourite color?" Sarvankar speaks in Marathi for him.

Tony grins. "If his is green, mine is red."

The moment his boss translates, Green's entire body relaxes. "Thank you. The kids'll be thrilled."

"Kids, huh..." Tony thinks about this. "Ask him if he speaks any other languages."

Sarvankar only looks vaguely surprised, and complies. Green laughs, that hint of nervousness returning.

"A few, yes."

Tony nods and sweeps past Green, grabbing his arm and calling to his boss that they'll be back later. The other man just smiles bemusedly and lets himself be dragged off into the city, and what exactly does Tony think he's doing, really?

Tony releases Green and straightens his own shirt out. "Walk with me," he invites in French, but recieves a blank stare. He gestures at himself and the street and starts to walk.

It's Green's turn as he falls into step beside Tony and he tries - Portugese? Tony answers in denial. That's two languages of his he can cross off, and two of Green's.

It must have been an odd sight, two very different men walking down the sidewalk at a painfully slow pace, speaking to each other in varying languages before faltering and trying again in another. Eventually Tony gestures at Green to be silent and rubs his forehead, leading the way up to his apartment almost blindly as he forgoes the headache.

"Coffee?" Green asks in English, and Tony looks up to find they're passing the Starbucks. He catches himself nodding a split second too late, and now Green is giving him that calculating look that means something terrible when used by Sarvankar or Pe-

By his boss. Bad news for him and his schedule. But this time it's not his schedule, but his cover.

He clears his throat. "Yes," he says in Dari, knowing Green won't understand but trying again anyway. The other man nods once, decisively, and gestures for Tony to lead the way.

Green struggles with ordering so Tony gets a black coffee for him, apparently assuming correctly the other man's tastes, and asks for the "special". The lady hands them over a tall cup and a java chip frappuccino.

 They blend in relatively well with the small crowds, meandering down the streets at a slow pace. Tony revels in the companionable silence, savoring his chilly drink as he slowly cools from the heat of summer in India while wearing two long sleeved shirts (one isn't enough to hide the swollen veins anymore).

His apartment is... humble, to word it nicely. A small, sixty by sixty one-room and a bathroom, and he's found it surprisingly easy to keep it clutter-free. On one wall is his black couch, which folds out to be his mattress, his little "side table", and the door to the bathroom. The adjacent wall, next to the door, is the kitchen area, consisting of two sinks, a fridge, a stove and oven, three cupboards, and twelve feet of counter. Nearly the entire west wall is a window with threadbare maroon curtains. The east wall is all table, with scattered electronics and their parts covering every inch of it and some of the floor. In the middle of the room, a worn brown rug may have been circular once, but is now an oblong oval-ish shape. The ceiling is low, cracked and stained with water spots. A scratched rectangular wooden table stands off center, with two mismatched chairs. There's a small, shredded cat bed tucked away underneath. Two lights, one above the kitchen table, and one above the east wall's mess, flicker faintly. It's been giving Tony a headache lately, he needs to go get new ones.

He looks around and thinks, home.

"Welcome," he declares in Spanish, “to my humble abode."

There's a small gasp from Green, and Tony turns while consciously not frowning. However, Green isn't looking at his apartment, but rather stares at him.

"You speak Spanish?" the man demands in the same language, and at Tony's nod sighs in relief. "Excellent. Allow me to introduce myself, then."

Tony's not-frown turns into a smile as he shakes Green's proffered hand. "I'm Bruce Banner," he continues, shaking firmly. Tony's hand aches a little when he gets it back, which only makes him smile wider.

"They call me Acervi," he offers, shoving his hands in his pockets. This gives "Bruce" pause, but he accepts it after a moment's thought.

"Can't speak English, then?" he queries. Tony shrugs and kicks his shoes off at the doorway, waiting for the other man to do the same before closing the door. Bruce is clearly waiting, so Tony gives himself another moment to think by giving himself brainfreeze via frappuccino.

"It's complicated," he says finally, suppressing a wince at the lame excuse.

 Bruce's look sharpens. "Why is it complicated?"

"You first, Green Bean." That at least cracks a smile, no matter how quick it vanishes.

"Isn't the host meant to accommodate the guest?"

"My house, my rules," Tony sing songs, smirking. The frapp cup is dropped into the tiny bin by the counter. Bruce gives him a flat look and Tony is given the strong impression of the man's favourite line, 'can you not'. He mentally dubs it the 'Tony no face'.

"It's proper social conduct, I believe," he says dryly. Tony rolls his eyes, dropping onto the couch with a sigh that turns pained at the end as he jars his aches.

"Fine," he says dramatically. "What do you want to know?"

"Oh, "Bruce says airily, triumphantly, vaguely smug (rude!), "you know. Why you apparently can't speak English, even though you can type it just fine. Why you're using a metal suit to steal tech and blow up terrorist groups - don't give me that face, it's obvious," he adds. "And oh, tell me why there's a black game of Tetris climbing up your neck, that'd be nice to know, too."

Tony claps a hand to his neck, swearing in frustration and not a small amount of pain as his palm connects with the over-sensitive tissue. "Is it gone that far? Shit."

"Looks like I'm not the only one with a 'condition'," Bruce oh-so-helpfully observes as he tugs ineffectually at the collar of his shirt.

"Shut up," Tony complains, giving up, "it's just a thing. You know, like.. like a cold. But more permanent."

Bruce frowns suddenly and lurhes forward to get a closer look, ignoring Tony's scoot backwards. "Are those your veins?" He shoves Tony's hand away and prods at one, freezing at his sharp inhale. "They are," he realizes, stepping back with a look of concern. "Look, Acervi? That's heavy metal poisoning, you can't just let that go like you have been."

"I know," Tony snaps, incensed. "But there's nothing I can do. It's a thing, that has happened, and it's not important."

"So what's more important than your health, blowing up bad guys?" Bruce shoots back.

"Yes!" Tony explodes, leaping to his feet and gesturing wildly at the both of them. "It's not a thing I can just will away, or just drink a potion to make better. It's a real, serious deal that I cannot stop. It's - it's," he sighs, anger draining away. "Have you been able to cure your radiation problem?"

Bruce suddenly finds something fascinating about the floor. Tony winces again, sure he's gone too far. There's something about the way Bruce is standing, with his shoulders hunched and his head down, that hurts to look at with a sort of miserable familiarity.

I've gotten close," Bruce says quietly. "So close, but then it turns around on me and it's like I haven't done anything."

"It's like that," Tony says seriously, calmed by the sudden quiet. "In the end you can't get rid of it.  If I'm going to die, and it'll be soon, I might as well take some of the bad guys out with me."

Bruce has this painful looking twist to his face. “Maybe,” he says hesitantly. “Maybe I can find something. I’m more likely than you to find something, anyways, your area of expertise isn’t with the human body. Mine is.”

“That’s nice,” Tony says. There’s one variable Bruce doesn’t know about, probably won’t know about, and that’s the arc reactor, which really is the clincher on this deal, isn’t it? No matter what this guy tries, it’ll all be in vain.

“Just,” Bruce says firmly, “let me try.”

It’s tempting, even if Tony knows it’s useless. This guy, whom he met on the internet by trading hacks like handshakes, who has been asking for help from him for two years, is now asking to help and it’s a little overwhelming. Just a little.

“I – fine. Good luck.”

“Thank you.” Bruce looks immensely relieved and Tony feels guilty.

There’s a scratching at the window wall and Bruce jumps to look, while Tony reclines back into the couch with a heavy sigh. A little clicking of claws on the ground, and then a twelve pound lump drops onto his lap, situating its paws on his chest right where they hurt the most (on either side of the reactor, the little shit). Tony groans, allowing the creature to lick his stubble earnestly.

“What,” Bruce says, “is that.”

Tony sits up, earning an indignant hiss as he adjusts the cat in his arms. “This is Pepper,” he says brightly. “My cat. She hangs around outside, but she comes in to cuddle every so often.”

Pepper, whose eyes had been screwed up as she hissed her displeasure, whips around to glare blue ice at their guest. She’s an average-sized cat, with sharp ears, a dark ginger tabby coat, and dainty paws. Her feather duster tail whips Tony in the face and he garbles a complaint as she assesses Bruce, swatting it out of his eyes.  

“Well,” Bruce says cautiously, “it’s nice to meet you, Pepper.” She snorts in a most uncat-like fashion, lumbering around and settling herself rather rudely in Tony’s lap. He sighs and strokes the prickling fur on her spine. “You know,” he continues to Tony, “cats come to comfort people who are lonely.”

“That’s nice.” Tony raises an eyebrow. “You wanna see the suit?” Bad subject change, but Tony does not want to go down that road.

“You mean do I want to see mental five year old dick around in a metal suit?” Bruce shrugs, adjusting his glasses.

Tony puts a hand over the reactor in mock hurt. “You just keep aiming to hurt me, and it’s offensive and also not very nice. I’m a genius, I’ll have you know.”

**8**

“That, I’ll admit, is incredible.”

“I know,” Tony says smugly, pulling the helmet on and waving in the suit as he flies out the back door, leaving Bruce in the dust (sorry, buddy). It’s a second skin, a healthy one, and he can lose his aches and pains for a few hours when he wears it. A relief, his temporary cure. As Eurasia’s Iron Man, he can put a hold on his own reality and be an avenging angel, destroying America’s technology – his technology, but no one can know that – from out of the wrong people’s hands. If that happens to include the military at some point, well.

But this time, he finds no joy, no vicious satisfaction, at lighting it all up, and killing them all. How many people has he killed like this? He wonders suddenly. It’s a sick thought, a dark feeling that he doesn’t want to know, that answers.

He flies away with a bag full of palladium and a backdraft of an explosion to speed him along.

Bruce is still there when he comes back, in the early hours of the morning. The suit takes some time in removal, but he has the good grace to clap and call him an idiot when he’s down to a shirt and jeans.

“I think I’ve reached my diagnosis,” Bruce announces, clapping slower now. “You’re insane.”

He really knows how to land the blows, doesn’t he? Tony glowers, affronted, and tucks the helmet back under his desk. Just keep em coming, why don't you, maybe I'll keel over from your insults first." He pauses at the constipated look on Bruce’s face. "Bad joke?"

“Very bad,” Bruce says seriously, raising an eyebrow. “So what’s with the light bulb in your chest?”

Oh. Uh. Shit. Only one shirt, right. “Yeah, that. Well, to start, all my lovely new tattoos start there..." Tony gestures at his neck.  
   
“Let me see,” Bruce demands, lunging forward and grabbing at the hem of Tony’s shirt. When he tugs upwards, Tony finally lurches backwards.  
   
“Whoa, um, wait, I don’t think – “ Normally he might’ve cracked a comment about stripping, but this is the most sensitive area on his body. In a bad way. “C’mon, Brucie, let’s – “ His backside hits the corner of the table and he sucks in a breath. Right on a sore spot.  
   
 "Let me see," Bruce says softly. "Please."

Tony stares at him for a solid minute. This is his best kept secret, his darkest secret, his life. His death. He knows that it only makes sense to show the other man, get it over with, accept help, but feelings defy logic, don't they? 

Finally he aquiesces, and Bruce lets go long enough for him to pull the shirt up and over his head. It's cold in his corner, but his shiver is more of nerves and maybe a little bit of fear. 

It's not a pretty sight. The reactor continues to glow a reassuring blue, but the swollen black veins snaking outwards tells the real story. The whole area is, when not lined with black, the painful looking (and really, it is) red of something infected. It's a nasty network of greens and blues, turning the untainted skin a sickly metallic shade. His shoulders, his arms, his torso and down past his ribcage, all reflect how far gone he is. Maybe now, he thinks bitterly, Bruce will see and understand. 

"Jesus," Bruce breathes, reaching forward; when Tony tenses instinctively, he drops his hand but continues to stare, eyes mapping out every inch of the damage. He looks down at himself, flinching slightly at the sight of the bloodless scars from surgery, stark white jagged lines and knots amongst the color. It's fighting against instinct to leave his hands loose and relaxed on the table, instead of covering it all up so no one can see again. "What happened?"

"Terrorists," Tony says shortly. "Their bombs put shrapnel near my heart, so my doctor dug out my sternum and put an electromagnet in its place. Just in case, you know, if I actually wanted to live after being awake through the initial surgery."

So you use this to protect your heart AND power your suit?" Bruce shakes his head.  "You're not just insane, you're downright mental.  What powers it?"

"Oh, you know." Tony waves his hand airily, scowling all the same. "A few grams of palladium."

"Palladium?" Bruce repeats, a full octave higher. "Are you stupid?"

"It's the only element that can power it," Tony says defensively. "It's not as if I wanted to stick a chunk of radioactive metal in my ribcage. I mean, good on the doctor for the idea of electromagnet, but really."

"I feel I should be offended," Yinsen says crossly, very suddenly standing to his immediate right. It's an exercise of very good control to not jump a mile in the air with an undignified squeak. Thankfully, all he does is flex his hands on the edge of the table and stare at the floor.

There's a very long, very awkward silence before Bruce sits down heavily on one of the cleaner benches, nearly braining himself on a heavy chain hanging from the ceiling. 

"You're going to have to explain everything, from the beginning, in detail. We can start with your real name."

"I already said, Acervi." Of course he would know already. Of course. 

"Yes, you said that's what people call you. What's your real name?"

Tony swallows. All or nothing, he supposes. "You can call me Tony."

"That's not all in, Stark," Yinsen says snidely, putting emphasis on the last word. 

Bruce smiles. "Nice to meet you, Tony. Now, mind telling me about these terrorists?"

**8**

Bruce reclines on the couch, allowing Pepper to nudge at his shoulder. Tony's in the kitchen, frying vegetables and a little bit of chicken. He won't be eating much, but after hearing about the other guy (Tony refuses to call Bruce's alter ego an 'it') he figures Bruce must eat a lot. 

"You know SHIELD's probably noticed you by now, right?" Bruce says conversationally. "God knows they've been after me for years."

Tony piles the food onto a large plate and fills the pan with soapy water to soak. "Dinner."

"Thanks," Bruce says pleasantly, sitting across from him at the table. 

Tony passes him a smaller plate and a fork, the large dish in the center of the table. "What's SHIELD?"

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.  They're the people that handle guys like you and me. Looks good," he adds approvingly, piling the veggies onto his plate. Tony steals a zucchini slice and Bruce pretends not to see.

"Us, as in the badass community?"

Bruce snickers. "Yeah, that's who they're supposed to handle.  Usually, they try for recruitment first.  But when a person starts turning into a threat, or a potential one, they usually turn the negotiations from peaceful to men knocking at your door with big guns."

Tony scoffs, playing with his tiny plate of cabbage and chicken. When Pepper mewls pitifully by his feet, he tosses the meat down to her. "As if they could find me... have they been following you?"

Bruce smirks around a forkful of carrot. "They try." Tony makes the appropriate questioning noise and Bruce continues. "I let them think they've got eyes on me sometimes.  I show up on their radar a bit, let them see I'm in no trouble - or causing it - so they don't try too hard to find me.  I'm pretty sure they still believe I'm holed up in a cabin in the Himalayas."

"Are they looking for me?" Pepper seems to give up on him and jumps up onto the table, tucking in and chewing at Tony's food. He lets her. 

"Of course.  They were searching the moment you attacked that first terrorist group," Bruce eyes the arc reactor critically through the single shirt he's wearing - at home means comfort, right? "Luckily, you're not very easy to track."

"Nobody's looking for a mechanic in the middle of India," Tony answers. "Quit staring, is there something I missed in explaining?"

"None that I can think of at the moment."

Tony stands up and collects his now empty dish, upsetting Pepper, who glares at him. The pot seems clean enough so he starts washing. Mindless work does him good sometimes, but with Bruce around it seems he's got to think about the way he acts - with Bruce, he's Tony. Outside, he's Acervi. He hadn't realized how well he kept his own mask up against himself. "After work, I'll show you the tranq I made you."

"Alright," Bruce says amiably, stroking Pepper. What a suck up, Tony thinks fondly. He's going about it the right way, anyways. 


	11. discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, back to Steve.

It's a hellish world, Steve decides, and the goal is to distract you from figuring that out. That's why there are all these lights, all these people, all these new things to do, why no one will leave him alone, SHIELD or no. He's lost count of the amount of times he's been propositioned by a woman, of the ways Fury's people try to disguise themselves so he won't know they're following.

He knows exactly how many times he's been propositioned by a man (nine) however, and how many times he's seen Fury himself in a bar or convenience store (sixteen), a finding he thinks strange, because what is the director of a top-secret government organization doing buying a slurpee from 711?

Following Steve, he supposes. Or maybe he really is that normal. Fury does always get the cola flavor.

It's been three weeks. Three weeks of going through the motions, deliberately not thinking about dead friends or their children, focusing instead on the dwindling amount of natural beauty left in the world. Like cherry blossom trees. He heard that these trees came from Japan, and with them it's easy to forget the role that country played in his war - World War II, they call it, as though they're expecting another. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Nuclear weapons, he's heard. Like the atomic bomb, he's heard. Why doesn't Stane Industries make them like Howard Stark used to, he's heard. Tony Stark was useless, he's heard. And Stane is no better.

He has nightmares, sometimes.

He would have thought they'd be the typical sort of frightening, like being alone in the empty room of his life, or that breathless moment before the plunge that led to his current situation, or more likely, the horrors of war. He does have those sometimes. He wakes from a dream of churning black water, being the little Steve amongst the modern crowds of New York, swollen infected wounds and the cries of dying men. Those make him sick. But it's the memories that are the worst. He dreams of wandering nights with Peggy, smiles and laughs with her as they dance into the early hours. He hugs Bucky, grins and runs and loses his breath and fights the war until dusk. He gets a kiss from his mother, a gentle smile, days of caring for her as she cared for him, of peaceful early mornings with a book and a blanket.

It's from those nightmares, the sick, twisted, happy ones, that he wakes crying.

He makes the shivers go away by attempting to sketch. The crude, shaky lines are somehow a comfort. He draws one person from his past, every night he had a nightmare. Old childhood friends. The man who ran the bookstore. All his schoolteachers. His mom. His friends. The Howling Commandoes. Peggy. Howard. Erskine. The nasty generals and faces from across the street. Ladies Bucky tried to set him up with. Everyone.

He fills two sketchbooks, having drawn all of them once. Just once. After that, he can't make himself do any more. And so he has no reprieve from his dreams.

He wakes up once, and thinks of Tony Stark.

Googling him takes no effort and pulls up thousands of pictures, some funny, some dramatic, many self-incriminating in such a way that the secondhand embarrassment is almost too much. Nobody missed him when he died. There was mourning, there's pictures of the funeral, but only one woman was crying, and then there was the hate. People talked about him being a patriot, a great man, a genius, and people talked about him being a playboy, a slut, an alcoholic, and fifty kinds of 'what an asshole' or 'he deserved it', and these are the ones that count to the world. He wonders what Tony Stark would say if he saw all this.

Perhaps a rueful smile, a faint crinkling of his brow, hurt darkening his eyes behind those ridiculous gold shades. He would pose and posture and brush it all off, and when he got home he'd sit down heavily and sigh, run a hand through his gelled hair and bleed inside because if there's one thing people are good at, it's hurting other people. Their words are poison.

Tony Stark is dead, and Steve just drew him twice.

**8**

The days are beginning to lengthen, and Steve sees the effect of the oncoming chill. He doesn't mind, though, not as much as he thought he would. He surprises himself again by barely feeling the cold. Desensitization, perhaps. Whatever the reason, he's fine with a light jacket and jeans on a day when everyone else is breaking out the scarves and pea coats. He tries to remember what it felt like to freeze, and can't.

The giant screens on walls are fascinating. They even play outdoors, which Steve wonders at because doesn't water damage electronics? Science must have done something, he supposes, and promptly feels stupid for thinking.

He likes walking through the heavier populated parts of town, because he gets to look while not being looked at. He hears the everyday chatter, the common news, learns the obscure references of pop culture. Hears about popular shows from different and goes home to Netflix them (and isn’t Netflix cool?) and discovers the way the world works with the internet. Makes connections, finds the right places, makes a home out of a tiny hole-in-the-wall diner. Hears about international activity as he enjoys a burger and fries at Byron’s. 

“- Eurasia’s mysterious Iron Man has struck, this time dangerously close to the border of Pakistan. The explosion could be seen for miles as he destroyed another terrorist weapons depot early this morning before once again, disappearing before the authorities could arrive. He’s escaped government tracking and various arrests for the last two years now. What are they doing? How long will Iron Man be allowed – ”

Steve glances over at the TV mounted on the wall above the register from his spot at the counter. The screen shows a silver blur flying in over a dark spot on the ground; a pause, then the whole place lights up in flames and smoke. The silver blur is visible for a short distance, and then it’s gone. 

Steve stares in shock. 

“Mr Rogers?” The waitress sounds concerned, and he turns his gaze to her. She looks troubled. “Are you alright?”

“I – yeah,” he says, setting down his burger. “Can I get this to go?” 

“Sure.” She smiles warmly and takes his half-eaten plate. He returns her smile, hands fisted in the pockets of his jacket. He’s antsy. He’s got questions. 

Is this what Fury was waiting for? 

He finds the man in a bar a couple buildings down, slides into a chair next to him and pulls out the rest of his lunch. Fury orders him a beer.

“You’re not very subtle,” Steve observes. Fury chuckles.

“I don’t need to be,” he says. “It was a statement. Let you know I’m here.”

“Right,” Steve says flatly. “So. Iron Man.”

“Iron Man,” Fury agrees. “I take it you saw the news.”

“I did.” He studies the half a burger in his hands, the cooling fries. “Two years, they said.”

“Too long,” Fury says. “That’s why we need you.”

Steve grimaces. “What makes you think I’ll be able to do what SHIELD and the government can’t do?”

“You’re Captain America, is why.” Fury reaches over and steals the biggest fry. “Look, Rogers. We can’t just leave him to do whatever – thank you,” he adds, taking the two glasses as the waiter reappears. He sets one down in front of Steve and swallows the other down in a few gulps.

“Why not?” Steve inquires. “That’s what you’ve been doing.”

Fury’s smile turns downward. “We weren’t able to stop him,” he says seriously, setting the glass carefully onto the coaster. “He’s there, and then he’s gone, and we have no time to get a tracker on him, or even get close.”

“Well, all he’s doing is blowing up terrorists – “

“And what will we do when he gets bored?” Fury walks right over his protests. “He’s attacked us before, to blow up the Stane Industries technology. We think that’s what he’s doing now, too. And when he’s killed all the terrorists, who’s to stop him from turning around and killing us too? Rogers, this man is a threat.”

Steve swallows. “I understand.”

Fury glares at him. “Do you, really?” 

“…yes.”

“Good.” The director stands and drinks Steve’s beer too. “C’mon, back to HQ. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

Steve packs away his burger again and wonders if he’ll ever get to eat it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Byron’s is actually a sort of fast food here in Hawaii, with awesome things like teri steak and barbecue chicken (NOT the same as the stuff with barbeque sauce, thank god) and curry and burgers with cheese and teri sauce and mac salad on a bed of lettuce and HEAPS OF LOVELY RICE AND PASSIONFRUIT JUICE or whatever kind you like but lilikoi’s my favourite. Uh so yeah. There’s that, and I don’t know how far the chain has gone (is there a Byron’s on the mainland?) so I turned it into a burger place in mourning for the Byron’s that closed near my house.


	12. get moving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY JFC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for how late this was, UGH. BUT!! Good things happened! The lovely Kadigan is now my beta, so there'll be much fewer mistakes from now on, if at all - she's really sharp, it's great. 
> 
> (Also, if you're reading this fic then my assumption is that you've read hers (especially Revision oh man). If you aren't, I suggest you remedy that. It's a very strong suggestion.)
> 
> ANYWAYS. I swear I haven't lost motivation yet - I've got some great cheerleaders, and they are you! Please, as always, tell me what you think. Much love!

_“The chicken has flown the coop, I repeat, the chicken has flown the coop.”_

_“Shut UP, Clint.”_

Steve tries his hardest not to smile as he listens to the two SHIELD agents’ antics over the radio. At the same time, however, he wonders how two agents on a mission can be so carefree, so casual. He chances a glance to his left and sees Fury almost smiling, but not quite.

“Barton,” Fury commands, “focus.”

 _“Yes sir,”_ Barton (who must be Clint, as the other speaker is a woman) replies brightly, and the radio switches off.

“What did he mean, the chicken - thing?” Steve asks. Fury only snorts.

“He’s full of bad bird puns,” the director explains, uncrossing his arms. “Hawkeye,” he supplies at Steve’s bewildered expression.

“Oh.” Steve thinks about this. ‘Hawkeye’ is a codename then, like ‘Captain America’. “And the - ?”

“Black Widow.”

“I see.” Sounds dangerous. Steve resolves to draw them when he gets home, to guess what they might look like. Maybe he can send the sketches to the people themselves. See how accurate it is, or isn’t. “And they’re in India?”

“That’s Iron Man’s confirmed location, yes.”

“That’s pretty... vague,” Steve ventures. How does Fury expect to find one man, who's apparently very good at hiding, in a whole country? Maps imply that country is quite large, actually, and well-populated.

"We've got our two best working on it," Fury states. He looks mildly defensive.

"Black Widow and Hawkeye?" Steve clarifies.

"That's correct."

"And they'll find Iron Man?"

"At the very least," Fury says. "They're more likely to find the man first, and persuade him to show them the suit."

"So what's my job, then?" Steve asks, frowning.  

"We need you to -"

The communications systems crackles back to life. " _-told you it wasn't._ " Black Widow's voice is snappish, tight. Hawkeye hurries to defend himself.

_"A lot of things implied that-"_

_"A man that FAT couldn't fit in the suit, Clint, physics doesn't work like that."_

_"He was the right height and had the right credentials-"_

_"He wasn't the right guy."_

"Hawkeye's 'chicken'?" Steve asks, and in the immediate silence, wishes he hadn't.

There's a sudden outbreak of uncontrolled snickering over the line.

_"Good job, Clint."_

_"Oh man, Cap, you heard that?"_ Hawkeye sounds mortified. _"Oh god, Captain America just heard me using bird jokes - Tasha, why didn't you stop me?"_

 _"Your idiocy, your reputation,"_ Black Widow says flatly. 

Steve has the vague feeling that he’s interrupting some long-standing argument.

“Have you found our guy yet?” Fury demands, and he thinks it’s more to get the agents back on track than it is to confirm the obvious.

 _"Nothing today, sir,"_ Black Widow answers promptly. _"That's it for this city. We arrive in Nagpur tomorrow at 0900."_

 _"That's nice,"_ Hawkeye says. _"Do you speak Nagpurese?"_

 _"It's Marathi, Clint, and no."_ Widow sighs, audibly inches away from strangling the other agent. Steve hides a amile at the picture his imagination supplies. It's the clearest shot of what he thinks they look like so far. _"Unless you've been hiding some secret talent from me."_

_"Nope."_

"Get off the comm lines," Fury growls, and they're gone. The sudden quiet is slightly strange with the absence of the two personalities, whether or not they were actually present. Steve stands still to Fury's right, carefully not thinking too much about these agents'... reliability? Consistency? At least they're good people. He has no doubt that they'll do their best. Widow, at the very least, will be serious, and if Fury calls Hawkeye one of his best agents then he must be something special, too... 

"Sounds like they've got it handled," he says eventually, looking over the director's shoulder to the wall behind them. He spies the smallest scratch on the reflective steel walls and considers how it got there. 

Fury gives him a hard look. "They might," he agrees. "But just the two of them won't be able to get the job done alone. Not in this situation."

"So what do I do?" Steve suddenly feels his lack of verbal respsct towards Fury and tries not to cringe. 

"Aside from babysit Barton?" Fury turns and picks up a paper off his desk, handing it over. Steve examines the photo of Iron Man, guns and lasers blazing as the desert explodes before him. It's an aesthetically pleasing shot, clearly taken by someone with an artist's eye. "Iron Man is dangerous. My agents are good, but they need to be ensured that they'll have protection. They need a shield." He gives an indicative nod. "That's you."


	13. needle in a haystack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we're getting somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY, guys, that this took so long. About halfway through I was like OHP. I'LL WORK ON THIS LATER and then I never did. So. There's that. 
> 
> Anyways, thanks again to my lovely perfect beta, Kadigan. <3 Also thank YOU all for reading and, as usual, tell me what you think!

****

Steve used his nice colored pencils for this.

****

A man with dirty blond hair narrows his slate-grey eyes at something off the page. Not quite middle-aged, but the beginnings of crow's feet at his eyes betray him. He's wearing a deep red and black bulletproof vest and black pants, tucked into solid military combat boots. His tanned arms are bare and well-muscled, faintly scarred in places. He's pulling a standard SHIELD-issue M9 from its holster, but the weapon doesn't suit him. Every line of the Hawkeye from Steve's head has been lovingly inked and colored, and as he sets the pencils aside he wonders if the agent looks even vaguely like the man in his imagination.

****

Black Widow is tall, Hawkeye's height, with a strong but lean body and a slightly wider waist. She's got the same type of clothing that Hawkeye is wearing, except with long sleeves and fingerless gloves. Her boots are slightly smaller in bulk, and the under armor she's wearing creeps up to her neck. She's tan, too, with deep brown hair that's blonde at the roots. Unlike Hawkeye, she's staring directly up at Steve with one finger on the safety of her pistol.

****

He's a little more confident about Widow.

****

What Steve doesn’t understand is how SHIELD’s headquarters can be in the middle of Upper Manhattan and no one seems to question it. There’s some modern stereotype for old government buildings, he thinks he remembers, where if it’s abandoned it’ll be full of people who thought it would be a good place to smoke, or do drugs, or commit murders or homeless people decide to make it their homes, or something. Yet here, there’s nobody, and somehow Steve manages to walk right up to the front door and enter without any trouble. The outside looks terrible, honestly, and just the place for those types of people.

****

It’s a weird contrast to the inside, which is all lights and gleaming shiny parts and agents in suits. Steve is immeasurably grateful that they decided to ditch the 40s theme last week, because the regular SHIELD environment is obviously more natural for everyone there, and their comfort relaxes him in turn.

****

  For the most part, the crowd of agents parts as he passes. Some of them offer greetings or nods in his direction, while others are clearly victims of his angry visit to Fury the month before - he can tell because they refuse to look him in the eye and fidget, just slightly. He almost regrets his previous actions when he sees them.

****

 

There's suddenly a thing in his way and he barely has time to realize this before he walks into it, head-on. Papers fly, many of them not his own, and an unfamiliar voice curses quietly. Steve backs up, apology on the tip of his tongue, but the other man looks up and speaks first.

****

"Captain America," he breathes, and his half-frown splits into a grin that doesn't quite fit the rest of his appearance. Steve sighs, willing the irritation away.

****

"Steve Rogers," he says calmly, offering a hand and ignoring the little voice that says no, no Steve Rogers anymore. Today only needs Captain America. The agent slowly takes his hand, seemingly nervous, but his grip is firm. He's still smiling.

****

"Phil Coulson," he says. His smile fades slightly when he glances down at the floor. "It's great to meet you in person," he adds, dropping Steve's hand and bending down to pick up all the papers. Steve hurries to help, swallowing a flash of guilt at the sight of the mess.

****

"I'm sorry for causing this mess," he says, grimacing as he gathers all the papers within reach into a neat stack.  

****

"Oh, no," Coulson replies with a more neutral smile. He's got Steve's portfolio in his hands, also a casualty of the collision. "It's quite alright. Is this yours?"

****

"Oh, uh, yes," Steve says hastily, holding out the stack. "Sorry these are such a mess--"

****

It's too late; Coulson is opening the portfolio even as he asks, "Do you mind if I look?" and Steve prepares to be embarrassed.

****

"Oh," Coulson says, looking startled. "Is this Agent Barton?"

****

"Er," Steve says.

****

"It looks just like him," Coulson continues, examining his drawing closely. "Did you have a picture reference? You can't have met him, Captain, he's been in India for the last month and I was still watching you sleep then --"

****

"Uh," Steve starts.

****

"SHIELD was observing," Coulson corrects himself, "your recovery."

****

"Um," Steve tries again.

****

"Strictly medical reasons." Coulson clears his throat. "You understand." He looks nearly as mortified as Steve feels.

****

"...Right," he manages eventually. "May I --?" He gestures to his portfolio; Coulson snaps it shut and hands it over immediately.

****

"Yes, of course, sorry." There's a few more moments of awkward fumbling before they both stand, papers gathered and put away. Coulson brushes the jacket of his suit with one hand, clearing his throat.

****

"Well, Captain," he says, "is there anything I can do for you?"

****

"Actually, yes," Steve answers, glancing down the empty corridor. "I uh, don't actually know where I'm going."

****

"Where do you need to go?" Coulson asks. Steve shrugs a little, unsure of what to say.

****

"I'm meeting with him in some conference room, but I don't know which one," he admits, tucking his portfolio under one arm.

****

"I see," Coulson says, dropping into some sort of default-SHIELD-agent state. "I was actually on the way there, myself. I can take you."

****

"Yes, please," Steve says gratefully, and follows the shorter man back the way he came. It's a mess of security checks and sharp turns. He's nearly dizzy by the end of it, and quite sure he'll never find his way out, but somehow Coulson knows exactly where to go. They walk in silence for several minutes, not tense but not quite comfortable, either.

****

So Captain America fans are still around. He'll never not find it at least a little strange, and the fact that this man never let it pass as a phase only weirds him out a little more. Meeting a Cap fan is kind of surreal, actually, because even though he doesn't feel like Private Rogers anymore, he certainly doesn't feel like a Captain America, but he wears that mask because it's the only one that really matters now. He wonders what Agent Coulson would think if he heard about Steve's opinion of Captain America.

****

"We're here," Coulson says calmly, stopping and turning quite suddenly to the left. A string of twenty-three numbers typed into the keypad where the handle should be opens the door, and he leads the way inside.

****

_"-- down the National Highway from Mauda, across the Khanhan River."_ That's Widow, reporting for their travel log. Steve follows Coulson into the near-empty briefing room. Fury is there, hands clasped behind his back and glowering at the black screen.

****

"And where are you now?" he inquires, turning to the map of India on the table. There are rows of red x's all over the Maharashtra state and beyond, covering nearly the entire map in tiny marks of red ink.

****

_"Outside a local mechanic's shop a couple blocks from the marketplace,"_ Clint answers. _"We heard the guy who works here, how do you pronounce it --"_

_**** _

" _Acervi,_ " Widow supplies.

****

_"Right, Ahcervee, he's apparently really good with all kinds of tech, and can fix any problem with your car."_

****

"Uh huh." Clearly the director has heard this before, and remains unimpressed. He waves a hand at Coulson without looking up; Coulson takes it as the cue it is and shuts the door behind Steve and himself. "Captain," Fury greets them. "Agent. Hawkeye was just explaining to us why we care about a mechanic."

****

_"He's not Indian?"_ Hawkeye tries. Fury frowns at that. 

****

"Well then, what is he?" 

****

_"We don't know yet,"_ Widow answers, _"but overall we feel he's someone to look at."_

****

Fury sighs. "I wanna see some progress sometime soon, agents."

****

_"Rent us an Audi to break?"_ Hawkeye asks hopefully. Beside Steve, Coulson snorts. 

****

"Really, Barton, is an Audi necessary?" he asks, arms folded over his chest. 

****

_"That's what we told the locals we have,"_ Barton says cheerfully. _"They all seemed to think that was funny, especially when we asked after this guy."_

****

"... Coulson, rent them an Audi."

****

"Sir." Coulson nods and disappears through the door. 

****

Isn't an Audi a really expensive car?

****

_"So, Cap is there?"_ Hawkeye asks, a hopeful note brightening his voice.

****

"I am." Steve pipes up, taking the chance to insert himself into the conversation. "Actually, I wanted to ask you something..." 

****

Barton helps walk him through sending a picture with his iPhone to Barton's own SHIELD-issued phone. He makes sure both of this pictures go through, hoping this isn't too distracting, that he isn't too inaccurate, that maybe one day he'll meet these people. 

****

_"Holy shit,"_ Hawkeye says suddenly, and Steve thinks that maybe he received the message. _"That's me."_

****

"Agent Coulson said it looked like you," Steve says, fighting a small smile. 

****

_"It is exactly like me,"_ Barton confirms. _"How the hell did you do that? Did you get a picture?"_

****

"It's just what I thought you might look like," Steve offers, "based on your voice and personality."

****

_"His nose is too small,"_ Widow declares suddenly. 

_**** _

_"It is not --"_

_**** _

_"But you are a very good artist, Captain,"_ she continues, steamrolling Barton's protests. _"I_ _didn't know you had a talent for drawing."_  

 

****

"Thank you," Steve says honestly. He thinks it may be cheesy to describe what he's feeling as a "little warm bubble of happiness", but honestly that's the most accurate description he's got.

****

_“So,”_ Barton says, and now that Steve’s got an apparently accurate picture of him in his head, he can see the agent’s imminent confusion as the comm catches the tiny beeping that phones make when you press buttons (it’s a little annoying), _“is this Tasha?”_

_**** _

_“I wish,”_ Widow comments. Steve bites back a sigh. He knew he couldn’t get both of them right, but it seems Widow is completely wrong. _“Do you know how much harder red hair is to maintain when you’re trying to be unremarkable?”_

****

Barton snickers. _“She’s way shorter than me, Captain. Sorry.”_

_**** _

_“I can cut you down to my height, if you want.”_ Her voice is pleasant, cheerful, even, and Steve feels the appropriate mild terror at the subtle murderous undertone.

_**** _

_"Please don't."_

****

"I'll have to side with agent Barton this time," says Coulson, reappearing in the doorway with a handful of paperwork. "We need him with his legs intact. I have your registration with the Maharashtran government, agents. You now are in possession of a silver 2011 A5 coupe. You'll find it in your hotel parking lot -"

****

" _Keys?_ " Barton asks.

****

" -- and the keys will be delivered to your room momentarily, thank you for interrupting, Hawkeye.”

****

_“Sorry, mom.”_

****

Widow makes a pleased sound. _“That is a nice car.”_

_**** _

_“That is a very nice car,”_ Barton comments. _“Sort of, small?”_

_**** _

_“Be nice, we’re about to break this car.”_

****

“Turn the comms off when you do that,” Fury says. Steve had forgotten he was there.

****

**8**

****

Apparently wrecking a car takes two and a half hours. Unfortunately, Steve can do a lot in two and a half hours.

****

Agent Coulson allowed him to look at the paperwork for the Audi, which gave him something to do for forty-five minutes as he read about how modern cars work. He wonders why anyone would want a stick shift nowadays when the car can do all the gear changing for the user. Personal preference, he supposes.

****

Back in 1945, wrecking a car could take less than a minute. It’s odd that it’s taking so long, he thinks. While Coulson and Fury discuss... whatever they’re talking about, Steve wanders outside in search of someone to ask about cars. The agent he finds is perfectly happy to help, even going so far as to hunt down an A5 repair manual for him.

****

Understandably, everything in the manual is completely lost on him, but it’s interesting nonetheless. What it does tell him is that yes, it is possible to destroy a car in very little time. According to the manual, however, there are so many ways to ruin a car it’s almost ridiculous. Almost, because anything with that amount of small moving parts is bound to have innumerable potential faults. This train of thought, however, leads him to wondering once again what Hawkeye and Widow could be doing to that car.

****

He considers spending time down in HQ’s gym, but he knows that if he goes there now he won’t be leaving for hours after, and he wants to be there when they take the car to the shop. Coulson promised to call him when the two agents came back on the comms, but that could be any time --

****

Never mind.

****

_“Captain Rogers?”_

****

“Sir?”

****

_“Phil is fine, Captain.”_

****

Right. “Have they finished?”

****

_“They have,_ ” Coulson answers, _“and they’re down the street from the shop.”_

****

“I’ll be right there.” Now to find his way back to the conference room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the general inactivity this chapter. Next chapter is when things finally start picking up. And by that, I mean WHOA WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HELP and I'm very sorry in advance.


	14. they found the needle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, what the fuck just happened.
> 
> So eventually I'll start doing what I wanted to for a while, and give you the top ten most used words in the chapter as your summary. Maybe next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forever thanks to the amazing Kadigan, who catches all my stupid mistakes (and my serious ones), plays cheerleader and wall to bounce ideas off of, who is the go-to person when I don't know something. Best beta ever. 
> 
> Also, welcome new readers, it's nice to meet you. I'm a bad person because I don't answer all your comments when I get them, but I do eventually and you just have to know I appreciate you guys too. And you people who are coming back for more? You're crazy! I love you guys. Seriously. 
> 
> So this chapter's nuts. I hope you enjoy more than I enjoyed writing it. XD As you all know, or don't, I barely keep a lid on my shrieks of delight every time I get a comment. To this day my parents still don't know when I flail around the house.
> 
> Also, this is the last chapter for a little while. I'm going on an 8 day trip TO THE MAINLAND OMG with no wifi, but I promise I'm try and write a bit on the plane!

_Eat your heart, Stark. You have no need of it._

Tony wakes on a choked off gasp, lurching upwards before his eyes have even opened yet. His stomach is rolling, pitching, and he can taste the blood and salt, feel the slimy texture of raw flesh pressed to his lips. He staggers to the bathroom and has enough time to give thanks to the architects for making it so small before he's collapsing to his knees in front of the toilet, retching violently. Nothing of any real consistency comes up, thank god, but he's still left sweaty and shivering, and every breath hurts.  
Bruce comes in some time later, stopping in the doorway with his hand on the light switch. 

"Don't," Tony snaps in a rough whisper. His head is pounding. 

"Tony..." But Bruce's voice is pitched low and he leaves the light off. "I'll be right back." 

Tony makes the appropriate affirmative sound and closes his eyes.

Minutes later, Bruce returns with a can of ginger ale. He helps Tony up from his slump on the floor, cheek sticking to the chilly tiles, and opens the can for him as he leans against the wall. 

"Ugh," Tony croaks, taking a sip. The taste mixes with the bile in his mouth and he lurches forward to cough the mouthful into the toilet before settling back again and taking a more confident swallow. Bruce sighs. 

“Budge over,” he commands, and Tony scoots a few inches at a time until his right side is pressed against the shower wall. Bruce drops next to him, bringing his knees to his chest. He cleans his glasses with his shirt while he waits for Tony to finish the drink.

Eventually the dizziness subsides and Tony feels significantly less nauseous, at which point Bruce uses his mysterious sixth sense to figure this out without Tony saying anything and helps him up. The movement brings all his aches to the forefront, but Bruce keeps him standing when he stumbles. 

“I’ll finish cleaning up,” he says, making sure Tony is steady before letting go. “You can either go back to bed or drink your chlorophyll.”

“Yay,” Tony grumbles, “spinach smoothies or stone slabs. I like my options.” 

Bruce only waves a hand in dismissal before turning to the cupboard under the sink for cleaning supplies. Tony heaves a dramatic sigh that devolves into a short coughing fit, aggravating his already sore throat. 

“Tony?” Bruce calls from behind the bathroom door. “You okay?”

“Yep,” he gasps, pressing a trembling hand to the fire beneath his reactor, “ ‘m good.” 

“Smoothie.”

“Sure,” he mutters. “Smoothie.”

The fridge is only a few shuffling steps away -- small miracles -- but it seems to take forever. By the time Tony gets there he swears it’s been at least twenty minutes, even though the clock insists it’s only been three. He opens the fridge and gropes around the back without looking, keeping a semi-suspicious eye on the clock until his hand closes around the cup on the top shelf. Pepper hisses when he pulls out the chair she’s tucked under, but doesn’t move even when he kicks the fridge door shut behind him. 

“Hiss yourself, you little monster,” he mumbles, trying to swallow the smoothie without tasting it, the way he did the other day. “My chair. Hey, green bean!” he calls in a louder voice. “The clock is broken.” 

Bruce sticks his head out from the bathroom. “No, it’s not, Tony. Finish your spinach.” 

“We need to find a better way to do this,” Tony says, gesturing with the cup. “Like, an IV or something. Is there a different kind of plant that doesn’t taste so bad?”

“There’s grass,” Bruce suggests. 

“Grass-flavoured jelly beans?” Tony jokes, forcing down another mouthful. 

“They stopped making the Bertie Bott’s beans a few years ago, actually.”

“Damn.” 

“Quit complaining, Tony,” Bruce says sternly. “You only have to drink forty ounces of that a day. Now, I have to finish the bathroom. Your HiClean’s almost empty, by the way,” he adds, waving the bottle of cleaning solution. 

Only forty ounces, he says. “There’s a refill... somewhere.” Tony waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the kitchen cupboard, making a face at the taste (again). 

“Right.” Bruce sighs and goes back to cleaning.

At first it was humiliating, but after two and a half weeks of Bruce moving in and asserting himself as The Mother Hen, Tony sucked it up and swallowed his pride. Not that he doesn’t complain incessantly, but it’s usually at least half-joking and Bruce understands, more or less. Sometimes, not so much, and he gets a glowing green reminder, in the form of a glare, as to why he shouldn’t piss off the other man. Which, scary. A little. Anyways, once he figured out how to step aside and let Bruce help, things got a lot easier. Most notably, a lack of the tension that had been present when he’d do something embarrassing like, say, sliding off his stool when he tried to stand after sitting still for too long in the same position (and bring about a few other hurts that have less to do with the fact that he'll be forty-one in a couple months and more to do with a certain issue with palladium) and then ‘have the nerve to refuse help.’ Tough times. 

Nowadays Tony’s more comfortable sitting aside and trying to swallow forty ounces of plant juice every day while Bruce goes about doing... Bruce things. Most of these things are a mystery to Tony, like cleaning the mirror above the sink after taking a hot shower, or actual incomprehensible biology work, which he assumes is for Bruce’s Big Problem (green rage monster, seriously?). Somehow, Bruce is getting money to help pay for the added costs of a second person living in a half-a-person sized apartment, which Tony is not complaining about, but it sure sucks when he leaves and doesn’t come back for a couple hours after Tony gets home (it was during the first time this happened that he realized how much he liked having someone else around, and wasn’t that a shocker?). 

According to Bruce, the last dregs in the bottom of the cup are the most important. They also taste the worst, but that’s typical. He could spend hours glowering at the bitter mouthful, and had gotten himself good and ready for it last time; this time, it isn't Bruce who's cutting his pouting hour short, but rather Sarvankar, or more specifically the look on his face if Tony's late to work again. It's not a pretty face, and has a way of making Tony feel really horrible and berating himself for not being at the shop thirty minutes early, well prepared -- even if he does have the late shift this evening. Tossing the smoothie back, he glances at the clock to make sure he won't be late, actually checking the time instead of just watching the minute hand. 

Eight thirty-seven, it reads. 

"Banner," Tony says, "Brucie, what time was my shift tonight?" 

The silence is heavy with guilt. 

"Look, Tony," Bruce starts, coming outside the bathroom with his hands in the air, like he's got a gun pointed at his head instead of Tony's accusing glare. "You've been sick. You needed the rest, and I'm sure Sarvankar will understand --"

"Bruuuuuce," and no, that is not a whine, "I said a catnap. As in, twenty minutes, not four and a half hours." 

"I'm not going to wake you up from the longest stretch of sleep you've had in the entire three weeks I've been here," Bruce argues. "Catnapping isn't healthy." 

"Pepper does it," Tony points out, mainly for argument's sake. 

"Pepper," Bruce states, "is a cat. Cats get eighteen hours' worth of catnaps a day. You do not. You get maybe three." 

"Sleep is for the weak --"

"Sleep is for the sick," Bruce snaps, stabbing a finger at him, "which you are." 

Tony looks down at the cup in his hands, walls coated in the gritty green leftovers of the smoothie. He doesn't want to fight with Bruce about work. It's just, he feels so useless, restless, on his ass all day sipping vegetable soup while the world moves on without him. When he tries to move, he hurts and it only frustrates him more even as he feels his resolve to do anything slipping away. The lethargy is as painful as the poison. 

"I can't sleep," he says finally. "You know that." 

"You need it," Bruce insists, half-heartedly. He knows the argument is over. 

"I know," Tony says, and sets the cup on the edge of the table. "I have to go to work," he continues, gripping the chair with one hand and the table with the other to push himself up. "See you."

"Bye, Tony," Bruce sighs. 

**8**

"You're late," Sarvankar observes, beefy arms crossed over his chest. His raised eyebrow speaks of curiosity, however, instead of frustration or disappointment. Seems like Tony's not getting his patented Look today. "I didn't think you'd be coming this evening."

"Blame the roomie," Tony says dismissively. "He seems to think I need as much sleep as my cat to function." 

"I wouldn't have minded if you'd stayed home to get that rest," Sarvankar says, "because you look like you need it. Still sick?"

"Not really," he lies, stretching his arms over his head. He very carefully ignores the burn in his muscles. "Nice tan line, by the way," he adds, dropping his arms and shaking them a little. "I keep telling you not to wear your work glasses outside, but why listen to me?"

"Why listen to you," his boss snorts. "You're going to have a permanent squint if you don't get a pair of sunglasses yourself."

"Don't need 'em." Tony wanders over to the wall with the clipboard to take a look. "Anything special today?" he calls over his shoulder.

"Not unless we get a walk-in," Sarvankar answers. "Guy down the street brought over his Toyota, though. It's fucked up pretty good."

"Toyotas are boring," Tony complains, but comes over to look anyways. He looks over the damage with a practiced eye, taking in the crusted mess of fluid and torn up wires. "Wow, what the hell." 

"Looks like some kind of animal tried to eat the battery," Sarvankar says. "It doesn't work, either. The battery," he adds. "Acid's all gone."

"And they didn't find a body?" Tony snorts. He picks up a wrench from the shelf and fiddles with the bar. "Idiots. What are we supposed to do for them, replace everything? It's all trashed. Just tell the guy to get a new car, it's cheaper than the cost of trying to fix all this."

"You're the expert," Sarvankar says, shrugging. Tony looks at him. 

"Uh," he starts, and frowns. "Your shop, your rules? Why am I the expert?"

"Because I s --"

"Excuse me!" A male voice calls in English from the doorway. Tony startles, dropping the wrench and Sarvankar's head snaps up. "We need help with our car! Anyone there?" 

"Coming!" Sarvankar calls, switching to his usual perfect English to answer before dropping back into his native language as he  gets to his feet. "Better go see what they need." He nudges Tony with an elbow. "Grab the clipboard for me, will you?" 

"Yeah, sure," Tony sighs, rubbing the sore spot where Sarvankar touched. "Be right over." 

"What can I do for you?" he hears Sarvankar ask in English as he makes his way back to the office wall. The conversation that ensues is pretty standard, he supposes. They should have more people who work here. 

"I agree," Yinsen says, leaning against the wall to his right. Tony jumps about three feet off the ground, his heart lurching unpleasantly at the surprise. 

"Fuck," he hisses. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm just saying," Yinsen continues. "Having a secretary, or anyone to manage the office, really, would add a sense of professionalism." 

"I didn't ask your opinion," Tony grumps, shaking his head and snatching the clip board off the wall. 

"You don't need to," Yinsen says pleasantly. "I'm perfectly willing to give it without your express permission. They'll probably have an Audi," he predicts, rubbing a hand over the salt and pepper stubble on his chin. "Foreigners and all, with your luck."

"That'll be just what I need," Tony growls, pretending to looks over the papers.

"I need to shave," Yinsen notes. "What will you do if it is an Audi?"

"Dunno," Tony says, "cry? And um." He shifts his balance from one foot to the other, suddenly awkward. "You can shave."

"I can?" Yinsen asks curiously. "What makes you say that?" 

"I went back," he blurts, then flinches at the sharp look Yinsen gives him. "To the cave. That we were, uh." He clears his throat. "In. Kept in."

"Why?" Yinsen demands, but his voice is flat. "When?"

"I found your razor," Tony continues, a little desperately. "In its cup. It was under the only keyboard left. And the battery," his voice cracks, and he clears his throat again. "I found that too." 

"I see," Yinsen says softly, and Tony looks everywhere but at the sad acceptance on his face. 

"It's on my desk," Tony admits. "The cup, with your razor. I left the battery.

"You weren't there," he says quietly, "when I went that time.  I wondered where you were. Can you even hold stuff? I can feel when you touch me but I don't know if --"

"Let's not," Yinsen interrupts, "talk about this. Take the clipboard to your boss. I'll." He sighs. "I'll be here." 

"Yeah," Tony says, in a voice that's almost normal, and hurries over to the front of the shop. 

"There you are." Sarvankar smiles and takes the clipboard from him. "Did you get lost?"

"Shut up," he grumbles, pulling a pen from his back pocket and jabbing him in the shoulder with it. Sarvankar snatches it and jots down a few notes. 

"This one's for you," he says cheerily. "Enjoy."

"What, why?" Tony asks, confused. 

"Here, take this --" The clipboard is handed back to him with the pen. "-- and I'll tow the car over. Prep your station, we'll be back in a minute." 

"Uh, sure..." He watches as the two men hop into their only tow truck and drive off, supposedly to pick up the messed up car. From the notes, it must be pretty bad. Windshield, driver's side door, three tires, and several parts under the hood are damaged. What did they do? 

**8**

"WHAT THE FUCK," Tony says, very loudly. Sarvankar snickers behind him. "No, really, what is this?"

"It's an Audi, Acervi," his boss replies. "Get to work."

"I hate you all," he groans, but takes a look anyways. 

Minutes later he realizes he's ranting his complaints and disbelief out loud, giving voice to his discoveries as he finds everything wrong with their Audi coupe. 

"The A5 model is shitty, they should know better anyway," Tony says. Sarvankar is translating for the owners at top speed, playing filter as well for all the extra information he feels doesn't need to be repeated. Such as Tony's last comment, it seems. "How did this even happen?" he starts again,  pacing the length of the car and throwing angry glances at the bubbling engine every time he passes. 

"We think someone followed us from Amravati," the red-headed woman says in English (and isn't she something to look at, wow, what the hell is she doing with that blond guy in India?), with Sarvankar serving as translator between them. "Someone," here she casts an accusing glare at her travel buddy, who winces, "had to get in a bar fight with the wrong people."

Is there ever a right person to get in a bar fight with? "Looks like they went with the textbook how-to-ruin-a-car plan of action." Tony frowns. "It's all very neat work, actually."

The windshield's been scraped to hell, probably powdered glass did that, the antifreeze has been cleanly replaced with sand, and it's obvious that the oil was changed with water long enough to fuck everything up, even after replacing the oil. Add sugar in the gas tank, which may not do a whole lot but certainly makes a mess, something unidentifiable shoved up the exhaust pipe, and little pieces of the engine and other parts missing entirely, and Tony's honestly surprised the car hasn't completely fallen apart. That's not even counting the cosmetic damage, either. 

"I," the guy says angrily, "don't really give a shit how neat it is, that's my fucking car." 

"He's not pleased," Sarvankar translates. Tony scoffs.

"Man, I don't even know how much we can do," he admits, rocking back on his heels. "It'll take days, and a lot of cash. I can fix the important stuff now, and you can have your  shit car back by eight tomorrow morning, but the body work won't get fixed for... I'd say a week. That's five days to get the parts and two to put it all together." 

"The windshield?"

Tony considers this. "If the damage isn't too terrible, I'll be able to fill some of it in, but not all of it. It might be a better idea to just replace it. That's easy, though, there's an Audi place across town. Hey, boss, would you get that for me?"

"Sure," he agrees. "I'll go call them. What model?"

"The A5 coupe, 2011." 

The eventual agreement is made: they don't care about body damage, just the actual function of the car. They have a meet up arranged, they explain, with a friend in Dhantoli. 

That's back the way they came, which is odd. Tony says nothing about it, though, instead opting to pull up his tools and get to work. 

 

**8** 

A hand on his shoulder wakes him. It's a familiar hand, warm and not attached to a terrorist. In Tony's sleep-clouded mind, this hand can only belong to one person. 

He responds by groaning loudly and obnoxiously, rolling over to squish the man's toes. Oddly enough, he seems to fall of a surface a short distance to the ground -- no toes to squish. The jolt sends a shooting pain up his spine, though, which reminds him of why he doesn't sleep on the floor anymore. He opens his eyes and glares at the figure above him. 

"If you let me pass out on the floor," he announces, his Spanish only vaguely slurred by sleep, "you deserve every single complaint I will ever offer for the rest of my sorry life, so help me god, Robert Bruce fucking Banner, I will end you --" 

There's a sudden movement to his left and oh, wait, he's at the shop. Tony sits up and blinks the last of the blur away. The woman whose car he's supposed to be working on is chatting with her friend, too far away for him to hear but he saw her react. It was just a twitch, a quick glance in his direction but he caught it. 

She recognized Bruce's name, he realizes. She knows who he is. 

SHIELD, he thinks, eyes lingering on the faintest bulge in the man's jacket. That's a gun. They're after Bruce. 

"Acervi," and oh, the hand belongs to Sarvankar, who is shaking his head, "you're at the shop. It's five in the morning." He raises an eyebrow. "You should listen to your roomie more often."

Tony wrinkles his nose. "Why'd you let me sleep? The floor is hard and cold."

"And you were dead to the world," his boss counters, "so it must not have mattered that much." 

It matters, all right. It feels like every inch of him hurts, throbbing with every arrythmic beat of his heart. "Help me up," he commands. "My back hurts." 

**8** 

Even though they're on the other side of the world, Steve feels like he's right there with the two agents as they make their way through Nagpur. It's a little strange, because there's no visual, but if he closes his eyes the sounds tell him about the city and the people. Now, however, the tension is rising and Steve knows something is wrong.

"How many other Bruce Banners do we know?" Hawkeye snaps over the comm system. "This just got way out of control. We need someone over here, now."

"Who's Bruce Banner?" Steve asks Coulson, who looks grim. 

"I'll brief you on the plane ride over there," he answers. "Put some clothes in a bag and get your shield, Captain. I'll see you on the flight deck in twenty minutes."

 He hasn't felt so out of the loop since he woke up. "Yes, sir."

Coulson smiles. "Phil is fine, Captain." 

**8**

Steve stares at the glass screen in his hands. A giant green beast throws cars and wrecks buildings, roars loud enough to hurt his ears even on low volume. Fire and explosions and screaming and gun shots overwhelm him, and he mashes the power button too hard; the video turns off but the screen cracks, little spiderwebs of stress crawling out from his fingertip. He sighs.

"Are you alright, Captain?" Coulson inquires, looking up from his own files. 

"Fine, thank you," Steve sighs, flicking up a document about Dr. Banner's research. His stomach drops when he reads "super soldier serum" as the reason for the Hulk incident. It's a sort of horror, an almost guilt, that he's the only one and other people have tried and failed and look what happened to this poor man who had no idea what he was getting into, and now --

"Captain." A hand closes over his wrist and he jerks. "Please let go of the tablet."

His hands obey and the glass slips away, taken by Agent Coulson. He clears his throat. 

"I'm sorry," he says, "for breaking it."

"Not a problem," Coulson says, taking a seat to his right. His paperwork, Steve notices, stays in his old seat. "Are you caught up?"

"Yes, sir," he says, then drops his head into his hands. "Not really." 

"Tell me," Coulson says, "about the war."

Steve looks up sharply. "What?"

Coulson waves a hand, staring at the opposite wall of the plane. "The war, your neighborhood, your friends..." He looks over and smiles, just a little. "I've just met Captain America, and he's a great guy. Childhood hero, that sort of thing. I'm sure you know, however, that there was a Steve Rogers before that." His smile widens a bit. "And there's a Steve Rogers on a plane to a foreign country in a new world. What's the biggest disappointment with the future?"

"Oh." Steve thinks this over. "No flying cars, I guess. See, right before I enlisted, I went to an expo with a friend, and this guy was trying to make a car fly..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank you all -- I look at the stats of this fic, I read all your comments, find the little notes amongst the bookmarks, and I realize that I honestly wouldn't have made it this far without you. I would've given up, forgotten about it, moved on to something else just to drop that too... This? Is all for you. Keep on being awesome.


	15. don't let it slip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for this shitstorm?!
> 
> ... Not me, and I'm the writer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been nearly two months. I cannot even begin to express how sorry I am for making all you perfect people wait so long. In truth, my trip to the mainland was less than two weeks long (I went to LAS VEGAS, guys, oh my god, even though I'm too young to do just about anything with an age limit, and I went to the GRAND CANYON TOO) but when I came back, I just... didn't write. I tried, honest! But really it took weeks for me to get my ass in gear and actually write what I was supposed to (read: I started a vampire!Tony fic instead). Aaanyway, lots of roadblocks and endless bitching (my poor friends, my poor beta, they suffered immensely) later, you now have over 6k. It wasn't supposed to be that long, actually, I was expecting to have to apologize for making you wait for practically nothing but here we are! 
> 
> So, thanks forever to my lovely beta, Kadigan, who cleans up my word vomit so your eyes don't bleed. Also, this bears repeating from a few chapters ago: if you're reading rustfic, I'm expecting that you're reading Kadigan's fic, Revision. It's awesome, okay, I can't find words to express my mass amount of feelings for it, and if you like hurt Tony and actual accuracy with like, everything (because there's very little I hate more than medical bullshit in a fic) go there ok, shut up and go now, rustfic can wait. 
> 
> COUGH COUGH OKAY, finally I'm getting to the end. So! The response for last chapter was mind-blowing, alright, like I died about a hundred times because reactions KEPT COMING long after I posted and is it selfish of me to ask you guys to make me go all mushy again, minus the two-month wait? Because I swear it won't take anywhere near that long again. Your comments/reviews got me all emotional, I swear to fuck, I kept getting weird looks for the huge grin on my face that lasted hours after every time I got an email notification. So, pretty please, keep spoiling me? //puppy eyes// Anyways, thank you for continuing to put up with me, thank you so much oh my god, and WELCOME HELLO NEW PEOPLE! I'm really glad you decided to give rustfic a try! Every little response I get, from a favourite/kudos to a two-word review makes me SO HAPPY. I just. Ugh? I love you guys, really I do.

As it turns out, Agent Coulson (Phil) led a remarkably normal life before SHIELD. There's no clear reason as to why he became an agent, either, aside from his experience in the CIA. Or maybe there is, and there's some event that he's not allowed to share. If so, he's very good at pretending as though that's it, that's his life, and making Steve believe it, too. Then again, that perfect bland smile could hide anything.

Steve wonders if he's ever killed a man (probably)

(almost definitely)

(he just doesn't want to imagine the kind agent covered in someone's blood).

It confuses him when SHIELD arranges to land in a public airport, at first, until he realizes that the plane they took off in looks much like all the others, just smaller. Made for forty people, maybe, instead of hundreds. It's pretty neat, actually, because it's made for so many people but really there's only Coulson, three other agents, and himself. Steve got a whole row to himself when Coulson moved across the aisle to stretch out over the seats (which didn't do much in the way of comfort). He spends sixteen and a half hours fidgeting, desperately wishing he could hunker down and sleep anywhere, in any position, like the boys in the -

Well. He's not one of those people. And by the time he feels like he'll be able to rest, the flight attendants come in to ask him to sit upright and fasten his seatbelt, because they'll be taxiing shortly. He obeys, feeling more than a little exasperated. Coulson makes it a touch better by offering a piece of mint gum to "pop his ears", like he did when they first took off. Steve didn't quite understand the agent's explanation of air pressure and the inner ear, but it's supposed to hurt if he doesn't chew something.

The landing is smooth and painless. Steve waits for the agents to gather up their carry-ons before picking his own bag up and following them off the plane.

So. Public airport. Coulson had warned him, but nothing could have prepared him for this. It's the whole of New York, corner to corner, in one room. The mess of color and light and sound has him reeling back a step or two as he fights to get the sudden sensory input under control. People, everywhere, in all sorts of clothes and speaking languages he's never heard wearing colors he's never seen crowd every last inch of what he can see of the building. He can't stop staring, shocked and amazed and more than a little terrified of the chaos.

Coulson lays a hand on his arm. "Captain," he says, studying his face, "are you alright?"

And just like that, he can shut it all down. He clears his throat. "Yes, s-Coulson," he amends hastily. "There's just, a lot going on."

Coulson nods in understanding, his brow still wrinkled in a way that Steve's beginning to label 'concern'. "There certainly is," he agrees. "But there's a trash bin over there where you can throw out your gum."

And... apparently you're not supposed to swallow gum.  _Oops_. "I swallowed it," he admits. Coulson nods again.

"It's not a problem to, as long as you don't make a habit of it," the agent explains.

Steve confirms his understanding, and they move on.

Amravati is hot. The wind hits Steve like he stuck his face in front of a heater on full blast. He pauses to remove the jacket he wore on the plane and stuffs it into his backpack, next to his new Captain America uniform. At the sight of the familiar colors he glances over to the agent carrying the bag with his shield inside, just to make sure she still has it. It bothers him that he's not to carry it himself, but as Coulson said: it'd be odd if he were carrying multiple bags while the other agents had only a duffel apiece. He'll get it back when they're on the train.

The train station itself is a little careworn in places, with stained beige walls and a big sign 's no ceiling indoors, either, but rather a network of wires and metal bars that Steve supposes must be involved with the trains somehow. The trains themselves are massive and colorful, with English letters and foreign characters stenciled on their sides. It all seems typical to Steve, up until he discovers that the only obvious staff are security guards. He watches Coulson insert money into a machine built into a wall (an ATM machine?) but instead of coins or a different currency or whatever else he was expecting, five tickets slide out with a receipt. It gives him a deep sense of unease; they don't need people to do anything nowadays, do they? There are machines at grocery stores, ATMs instead of bank tellers, robots in assembly lines, and now instead of a ticket booth there's a ticket machine stuck in the wall. He half expects to see a robot driving the train, and is ridiculously relieved when he spies a human silhouette through the glass instead. At least there's that.

The agent carrying his shield leans over and whispers that some trains are "automatic" now, meaning that instead of being in the driver's seat, there's a control panel at the station.

He might feel a little sick. It's more than a small comfort that people still use paper tickets, and isn't that sad? He's taking comfort from a piece of mushed-up tree. Steve glares at the offending paper, but it doesn't shrivel or burst into flames or grow a conscience, so he counts it as a loss and follows Coulson onto the train.

Which, of course, is still not what he expected. The entire car is seating, rows and rows facing the front with an aisle cutting through the middle. The five of them take up nearly a whole row, with two agents seated on the left side with a woman in a business suit. Steve, Coulson, and the agent with the shield ("Rebecca Bhandu," she says with a smile and a firm handshake) sit on the opposite side of the aisle, the three of them taking up the whole bench.

Steve watches as their car slowly fills with dozens of people of all color and profession. His fingers itch for color pencils and his sketchpad, if only to give the sudden rush of new and interesting an outlet.

Thirty minutes later, the last passenger has boarded and the doors close. A pleasant female voice makes announcements over the intercom system, which Agent Bhandu translates for his and Coulson's sake.

Steve spends the first hour and a half doodling the people around him. He pretends to not notice when Coulson tilts his head to watch when he's halfway done with his silly sketch of agents in swimwear (from his time). Something has to give eventually, though, so he acknowledges the other man's curiosity by attempting to redraw Black Widow. It's at this point that Coulson actually starts to voice his own opinion.

The last two hours on the train are spent trying to decipher Coulson's vague description of what, exactly, this woman looks like. At some point, Agent Bhandu joins in to correct his lines halfway through drawing them, eventually physically snatching the sketchbook out of his hands to erase a whole section and redraw. He watches, bemused and curious, as she and Coulson quietly bicker over how to explain Widow's hair color to him. It seems they've forgotten that the sketch is in pencil, and that he's not even able to draw anymore since they've taken the pad.

He figures it's safe to say that being able to describe someone is not a standard skill for a SHIELD agent.

Bhandu only returns the sketchpad when the train slows to a stop at the final station. He takes it with a smile and puts it away as everyone stands to exit the train.

There's a car waiting for them outside the Nagpur railway station, large enough to fit the five of them but not so large as to stand out. Steve seats himself comfortably between one of the two other agents and Agent Bhandu, secretly glad that her normally alarmingly frizzy hair has been pulled back into a tight SHIELD-regulation bun; while he would never dare to say it aloud, her hair untamed is so large that there would be no room for anyone to sit next to her without a faceful of it.

Coulson reels off the address before turning back to face Steve. "We'll be splitting up in ten minutes," he announces. "There's another car for agents Donovan, Castle, and Bhandu at the north end of the central marketplace. Agent Sanders will join you as the driver of the white Toyota you'll all be taking." He pulls out his tablet and shows them a picture. "Agent Chussi will remain with Captain Rogers and I. Bhandu," he adds, "don't walk away with the Captain's shield."

"I'll try to move past the temptation, sir," she acknowledges, smiling mischievously.

Coulson raises an eyebrow. Steve doesn't know him well enough to see past the professionalism, but he thinks maybe he might be the tiniest bit amused. "See that you do."

But when they get to the dropoff point, Bhandu badgers her way back in by switching places with Chussi, who scowls at her from the outside of the driver's side window.

"Where to, Agent sir?" she chirps, hands on the wheel. Coulson offers the tiniest of sighs before reading the address of the mechanic's shop to her. Steve is quite honestly surprised that Coulson would deal with that sort of insubordination.

"She's the niece of one of my old partners," he explains quietly. "I took her in when he died. Ten years later, she gets herself into SHIELD and I'm her superior." He gestures vaguely."I still can't say no to her. She's good with tension and knows how to work under pressure, else I wouldn't give her any highly important tasks or missions." He shrugs a tiny bit. "I don't tell her that, though I'm not sure she believes I can be truly stern with her."

Steve smiles, warmed by the story, but allows Coulson to end their discussion of the subject with the clearing of his throat.

"We're past due to check in with agents Barton and Romanov," he observes, glancing at his watch. "The train ran late."

"They're probably wondering where we are," Coulson says with a sigh. He pulls out their earpieces and hands one to Steve. "They haven't had anything to do for... nineteen hours now. I expect Barton is driving Romanov up the walls at this point."

Steve... is not surprised at all by that idea. Instead of responding, he opts to fiddle with the earpiece in an attempt to figure out how to turn it on even as Coulson slips his over his own ear with no trouble.

"I want them to find out more about this acquaintance of Doctor Banner's before we get there."

"The mechanic?" Steve questions. "They thought he might be related to Iron Man, right?"

"A little short for the job, but yes," Coulson agrees. Steve looks up from the communicator, surprised.

"You think Acervi's the guy actually in the suit?"

"I do," Coulson says. "He's friends with the Hulk, Captain. He must have some sort of defense against the doctor should he get a little too angry."

Steve tries to hide the wince, really he does, and to his relief their earpieces come to life before the agent can say anything about it. Not that he thinks Coulson would. Probably he already understands, after watching Steve read about Doctor Banner on the plane.

 _"Coulson!_ " That's Hawkeye, audibly relieved through the faint static.  _"Where were you?"_

 _"He was worried,_ " Black Widow states, the smirk clear in her voice. He has yet to correctly visualize her, and at this point is looking forward to seeing her in person.

"The train ride over was an extra forty minutes longer than it should have been," Coulson explains. "We had no secure way to contact you."

_"But you're on your way now?"_

"No more than twenty minutes out," Coulson promises. "What's it look like over there?"

 _"Well, Acervi's actually a really good mechanic,"_  Barton says, sounding amused.  _"He bailed right after he finished up, ranting to himself about how his room mate's a mother hen._ " He pauses. _"Guy looked tired."_

"His room mate, the Hulk?" Steve asks, skeptical despite himself.

_"Apparently."_

"Do you have any pictures of him?" Coulson asks, frowning hard at his tablet screen.

 _"We didn't have the opportunity to get a good shot without looking suspicious,_ " Widow says, sounding faintly apologetic.

 _"That's alright,"_  Hawkeye says, and Coulson closes his mouth.  _"Cap can draw him."_

Steve considers this. With a detailed enough description, maybe he could try... but then he remembers Agents Coulson and Bhandu on the train, and thinks better of his decision. "I'm not that skilled of an artist," he says instead.

 _"Captain,"_  Widow says,  _"you drew Hawkeye accurately based on the sound of his voice."_

Steve isn't sure why he's feeling so flustered. "Well, yes, I think, but -"

" _Okay,_ " Hawkeye chirps, seriously chirps,  _"ready? So let's see, I'd say he's about five eight, five n -"_

"Hang on," Steve says quickly, desperately trying to catch up with what's going on, "let me get my sketchpad out."

Coulson watches him flail around for a pencil with a tiny smile Steve doesn't notice.

"Okay," he says finally, settling down with his sketchpad open and pencil in hand. "Can we start with his face? If I get that right we can do the rest."

 _"Sure,"_  Barton says amiably.  _"Ready now?"_

"Sure."

 _"I see everything,"_  he warns,  _"so be prepared for a lot of detail."_

He wasn't kidding. Barton covers every inch of Acervi's face, every line and wrinkle. He somehow manages to put the curl of his hair into simple descriptive words, explains the shape of his face with a sentence, illustrates the exact shade of the mechanic's eyes with a phrase. Steve, increasingly troubled with each pencil stroke, can't shake the sense of familiarity. It only worsens when he realizes that even as Barton is talking, his lines are a half step ahead.

_He's drawn this face before._

At this thought he freezes, staring hard at the shape of the face and eyes while Barton continues. He mentally runs through every sketch he's done of a person in this time; did he see the man in the airport? On the train? Down the street? He narrows his eyes, tuning out the conversation around him while he thinks.

_"Clint tracked him past the Starbucks he frequents to the street he lives on before turning back. He said it's a fairly straightforward path, no trouble finishing the route."_

_"It may be necessary to surround the apartment before confronting them. Even if it won't do anything to the Hulk, Doctor Banner must have enough of a conscience to not want his room mate to get hurt."_

_"Do you think Acervi even knows the guy he's living with is a monster?_ "

He can rule out the more recent faces. This is a person he's sketched more than once...

_"Definitely. He referenced the color green in passing to the man who runs the place. Seems to be some sort of inside joke."_

_"The boss man knows about him, too?"_

… which means he can't be from any of Steve's midnight drawings. Who has he done more than once?

" _He knows something, anyways. Maybe not the full story, but probably more than we know."_

_"He knows about that secret room in the back of the shop."_

_"Room?"_

It's something about the eyes.

_"Yeah, the other workers call it Acervi's 'corner'. They're not allowed to go in, and when we poked around the guy himself came over to ask us to move. Said he's got a forge running in the back. I don't think he realized we knew what he was saying."_

_"Seriously. That was some creative usage of the word 'fuck' when he was working on the car. He really hates Audis, it was hilarious."_

_"Have you found anything Iron Man related?"_

_Iron Man. Technology_. Howard would've loved -

 _Howard_. But not. So then - but that can't -

_"If there is anything, it's in that back room."_

_"We're passing New Singapore, gonna be at the shop soon. Are you out front?"_

_"At the Starbucks, down the street. We'll meet you there."_

"Tony Stark," Steve mutters. The conversation between the three (four) agents grinds to a halt.

_"Say what, Cap?"_

"This guy, Acervi," Steve says, a little louder, a little more confident. "He's Tony Stark."

 _"Captain,"_  Widow says,  _"Stark died three years ago."_

"No, well yes, he did, but he didn't," he insists, digging around for his midnight sketchbook. He flips distractedly until he finds one of the, at this point, four sketches he's done of the man. "Here." He offers them both to Coulson. "They're the same person. Stark isn't really dead. He moved to India."

There's a long moment of tense silence and stillness while the sketches are examined.

Finally, Coulson closes both sketchpads and hands them back to Steve, rubbing a hand over his face. "Oh, hell," he sighs. "He's right."

**8**

_Seventeen hours ago_

Tony is hyper-aware of their presence as the 'customers' wander around the shop. More than once he pauses to glance up when he loses sight of one or both, only for them to reappear somewhere entirely different from where he thought they were.

 _Fucking ninjas_. They're trouble.

He reflects on what Bruce has told him about SHIELD and their agents. They're supposed to be sneaky, clever, excellent actors, not too memorable (but that's a lie; the redhead is an absolute hottie and nobody could convince him to forget that figure) and skilled in everything they attempt. He's gotta say, now that he's paying his closest attention, he can see their unnatural grace, their careful disinterest as they scope out every inch of his shop.

They're both loaded with all sorts of crazy weaponry, too. Weaponry they wouldn't hesitate to use against Bruce if they feel the need. And, judging by how the guy's hand occasionally twitches toward his pocket (likely subconscious), he's guessing they're a little on the trigger-happy side. If they find Bruce they're gonna try to take him. They can't do that.

He has to leave. He has to get Bruce out of here.

The very thought of his slip up makes him almost sick with guilt. He can hardly believe he wasn't paying enough attention. It's not as if Bruce has ever made him sleep on the floor, anyways, much less wanted him to, and - he sighs. He's getting distracted again.

Tony's been working on the SHIELD car for... the better part of seven hours, now. Others have dropped in, workers to say hello and help out or familiar faces from the coffee shop to give him a frappuccino and giggle at his frustration over the Audi. His neighbor drops by, once, curious about his all-nighter and gifting him with a couple donuts. It's a great community, close-knit, where everyone has at least heard of everyone else in their little run down area of the city. He likes to think he's a part of it, that he's one of them, even if he's really not. He pretends, though. He tries.

Well, he won't have to any longer. Thanks to his own fuck up he'll have to leave, to make sure Bruce isn't attacked because of his lapse in judgement. The idea of leaving Nagpur is terrible, almost horrifying. He already feels a little lost. Where is he supposed to go now?

 _Maybe I can country-hop with Green Bean_ , he thinks, fighting to stay positive. He won't last long in constant motion, but he imagines it's fun to sneak through borders and see new places with company. Much easier than his own travels had been.

But then, with all this, he's assuming that Bruce won't hate him for what he started. After all, he's been running from the US government and SHIELD for, what, five years?

Tony's the one who messed that up for him.

 _Okay_ , he thinks, glowering down at the wrench in his hand, l _ess self-flagellation, no matter how badly you fucked this up, and more planning on the 'what now'._

_God, those SHIELD fuckers must've done the Audi thing on purpose, just to piss me off._

_Fuck, but these cars are stupid._

With a sigh, he uncaps some tubing and continues to patch and clean. It's fairly easy to drop into the near-mindless motions of engine repair, a muscle memory created from constant work in the shop. More than once he catches his own gaze wandering, not even needing to look at certain points. It's all pretty standard: the rest of the shop moves around him, Sarvankar popping up to force a cup of much-needed water, the SHIELD people nosing around his corner -

Uh-uh.  _No_.

Before he even really thinks about his actions, before he can properly panic, Tony is up and over there, standing between the SHIELD people and the curtains leading to his workshop with only a tiny flathead for protection. He brandishes it anyway, gesturing behind him and at the rest of the shop as he speaks.

"I'm sorry," he says, "but area is off-limits to non-employees. There's a running forge," a small bit of truth, "so it's a dangerous room for those who don't work here." And you don't understand a word I'm saying, he silently adds at the guy's blank stare. "Hey boss," he says louder, catching Sarvankar's attention, "how do I tell them 'do not enter'?"

Sarvankar rolls his eyes but voices his request in English. The customers' expressions clear and they back away, turning to investigate something else. Tony has the sneaking suspicion that they'll be back. Considering the Iron Man armor is hidden back there, he better figure out a way to clear out soon.

**8**

"All done?" Sarvankar asks, grinning. Tony signs  _दांते आचेर्वि_  with a flourish and shoves the clip board back at the man, the pen rolling off and hitting the ground.

"Yep," he says distractedly, tugging his long sleeves over his wrists before dumping all the tools that somehow ended up in his pocket onto a nearby cart. "The roomie's probably furious at me for not coming home to rest. Such a mother hen, seriously."

"You can tell him you got an hour in here," Sarvankar chuckles, stooping down to pick up the pen before hanging the clip board up on its hook. Tony's back twinges in acknowledgement as he takes the pen and ducks into the office to drop it into a cup.

"Har har," he grumbles. "That extra hour not working on the car is time I could have used sleeping in my own home. Keys are on the bench by the driver's side door," he adds, guessing at his boss's thoughts (correctly).

Sarvankar laughs again. "Go home before you psyche yourself out of facing him. Take the day off," he says as an afterthought. "You can have the next night shift. Get some rest. Or get your hair cut." Here he gives him a significant look. "I've given up on your stupid habit of multiple longsleeved shirts, but having hair down past your ears is ridiculous in this heat."

Tony, in an act of maturity properly demonstrating the difference between age and personality, sticks his tongue out at the man. He makes a show of walking backwards out the door, too, for good measure.

As his feet take him to Starbucks, though, he quietly and internally panics over what's to come.

The ladies greet him as usual, he orders his two drinks as usual, they wave as he leaves as usual. To everyone else, it's just a regular day like any other.

He's struck, suddenly, by the realization that he's just one person, one life in the whole world of lives. What's his disappearance going to do, here? How will he affect the people around him?  _Will_  he affect the people around him? He's got the feeling that the Starbucks ladies might miss him, and Sarvankar might be upset... But really, that's it.

How lonely.

By the time Tony climbs the final stair to his apartment, he's breathing heavily and has chugged both his drinks, abandoning them somewhere in a large trash pile on the way up because there are hardly any public trash bins. He's tired, wearing three shirts to hide the glow of the reactor, and it's over ninety degrees Fahrenheit and climbing. He hopes Bruce is home.

Surprise! He isn't. Pepper raises her head and blinks at Tony from her spot on the couch. Tony mumbles a greeting and gives her a two-second scratch behind the ears before yanking the blanket out from underneath her. Pepper shrieks in surprise and flails, attempting to dig her claws into something but only succeeding in bowling over onto the next cushion. After sitting up and resettling herself, she shoots him a glare and gives a deep growl.

"Hiss yourself, you brat," Tony says dismissively, folding the blanket carefully. "I need this."

Tony never had a pet before, much less a cat. It's odd how quickly she clawed her way into his life, but he never minded. Now, he wonders how he's going to live without waking to a ten-pound lump of fur on his stomach, or fighting her for the last piece of fish. He can't possibly take her with him, after all. He'll be losing Pepper  _for the third time_ , he thinks.

It's his own fault for getting attached.

He takes his time packing. It's only ten in the morning, and if he's going to bring the suit (the armor, oh god the armor, what's he going to do about that, it's not like he can just  _carry_  it) he'll have to get it at night, when no one's around. He's also waiting, hoping Bruce will come home before night falls because he will, he won't be attacked before he makes it because he can't be, oh shit what if SHIELD already has him? The worry is a tight knot behind the reactor, weighing him down.

_They won't, they don't, Bruce can handle himself. He did just fine avoiding them before he met me, he'll be fine now._

All the same, Tony stares around his tiny apartment with a new sense of hopelessness. He can't do this alone, not anymore. At some point in the last year he's become reliant on other people to get on, and isn't that inconvenient?

But Bruce doesn't come after twelve hours, and Tony's late for his shift again (not that he'll ever have a shift to be on time for again) because he's been pacing anxiously, feeling nervous and sick and paranoid. He even drank the two smoothies in the fridge, for lack of anything else to do after fitting everything he could reasonably take, both his and Bruce's possessions, into two backpacks and a briefcase. He gave all his scrap metal and tools to the delighted neighbor, the worker at the New Singapore factory who's been eyeballing his tool table for three years. It pains him more than he'd ever admit to part with it all.

At ten-fifteen, he acknowledges that he has to go. Scribbling a quick note in English ( _Hey Brucie, I'm heading to the shop and holding your favourite loafers hostage. Meet me there when you can. Sorry - T_ ) that he folds up and ties to a disgruntled Pepper's foreleg, he gives the apartment and the bags a quick once-over (special things like Yinsen's razor and Bruce's photo of that Betty girl carefully packed, important things like the palladium chips within easy reach) before taking a deep breath and locking the door behind him (for the last time).

It's more of an effort to carry the three bags than he expected, and he's winded by the time he gets to back door of the shop. It opens quietly into his workshop; only he and Sarvankar should be in the building, but better safe than sorry. He drops the bags by his desk and begins collecting the various pieces of the armor into a pile. It takes a solid fifteen minutes, but when he's done he stares at it, at a loss. What do I do with it?

Tony thinks back to his neighbor's excited face when presented with the tools and metal, considering. The man works at the metalworking factory a block or so away. Half the building is a steel mill, full of giant vats of molten iron and steel... The idea doesn't sit well with him, and the whole vat will be ruined with the impurities in the suit, but does he have a choice?

 _Don't you use that suit again, Tony, you'll only kill yourself faster._  Bruce, blunt as ever, has had to remind him constantly, stopping him every time he felt the need to use the suit. No matter what he wants, it's not like he can be Iron Man again anyways.

He hears his boss grunt and drop something that hits the ground with a ringing sound. There's no music playing this late at night, and the silence is near painful. The armor gleams silver in the fluorescent lighting. For once, his forge is dark and cold. It's all very final, and sad. Bruce hasn't shown up yet, either. He already feels alone.

Maybe... he should say goodbye.

Tony moves before he can convince himself not to, getting to his feet and pushing his way through the chains and sheets that serve as the wall separating his workshop from the rest of the building. The chains clink and rattle and he freezes, wishing for a split second that he'd never moved and that he could go back inside to angst in peace but nope, Sarvankar looks up at the sound.

"Acervi!" he says jovially, standing up and brushing metal shavings off his lap. "I thought you'd never get here, you're two hours late!"

"Yeah," is what comes out of Tony's mouth, "sorry."

Sarvankar's smile fades as he takes in Tony's general posture, clearly reminiscent of the phrase deer in the headlights. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Look." Tony sighs heavily, running his hands through his too-long hair as the full gravity of the situation hits him yet again. "I just came over to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" Sarvankar echoes, visibly alarmed. "Why?"

"It's," Tony tries, gesturing vaguely behind him, unsure of how to continue. This was a mistake, this was such a mistake, what had he been thinking? "It's my fault. Uh, Greenie and I need to get moving, and soon -" His heart lurches painfully against the reactor when something clangs loudly against metal, but it's just Sarvankar dropping the tools in his hands.

"But why?" the man asks. "You've been here for three years, Dante," and the use of his first name really  _hits hard_ , "you're my best friend." He crosses the room in four long strides and grips Tony's shoulders firmly. "Is it really that important?"

"I'm sorry," Tony mutters, then, louder, "look, this was a mistake, I should've just left -"

"What," Sarvankar says in a strained voice, and Tony refuses to look him in the eye, "you'd disappear, and leave me to think you'd been killed in a back alley in Dhantoli?" His fingers dig into poisoned veins but Tony says nothing about it.

"That would be better than this," he argues, "because at least then you wouldn't know anything."

There's a short silence, during which Tony associates the burning in his chest to the rising shitstorm of emotion. He's fucking this all up, and there's no going back on what he just said, god, can he be any more stupid?

"This is about those Americans," Sarvankar says suddenly, "from this morning."

Tony swallows, the taste of palladium bitter on his tongue.

"They're after your friend," Sarvankar continues, rapidly connecting the dots. His brow furrows. "What are they, some sort of government agency? And they want to take your friend in?" He takes Tony's silence for the answer it is. "Okay," he declares, stepping back and releasing Tony's shoulders. "How can I help?"

"You can't," Tony says shortly. "You can forget that I ever came here tonight, that you've heard from me any time after I went home from work this morning. For all you know, my roomie and I just disappeared - or I was killed in a back alley in Dhantoli. No, don't argue," he adds at Sarvankar's protest, "this is for the best. Seriously. You're safe if you don't know anything."

"That bad, huh?" his boss asks quietly, but he doesn't need an answer. "You can trust me," he promises.

"I appreciate that," is all Tony can think to say, and he does.

"But who's going to fix all the Audis we get?" Sarvankar jokes weakly. Tony snorts.

"Dahnke can do it," he says dismissively. "The only reason I've ever done them all is because he's a lazy shit."

"You gonna come back to make sure he's doing a good job?"

"Yeah," Tony says. They both know it's a lie.

"Have you got time before you leave?" Sarvankar ventures. "We never finished up that guy's Toyota."

"I - yeah." He'll wait for Bruce until midnight. If they don't meet up by then, he'll drop a note under the screwdriver with the red handle and put it with the boss's tools.

He has time, until he doesn't.

It starts out small, the same little twinges and shocks of pain he's been feeling for the last few hours. At first he brushes it off, associating it to the poisoning and reassuring Sarvankar that he's alright every time he pauses to let it wash away. Bruce's disappearance is much more important, and the worry is a leaden ball in his chest. The reactor has never felt so heavy.

Together they pick over every inch of the car before them, eventually making the same decision Tony had initially: it's better to just get a new car rather than attempt to repair all the damage. They're chatting about different options for the owner of the Toyota when it happens: he's talking one second and on his knees the next, doubled over and gasping. It  _hurts_ , in a way he's never felt, or maybe just hasn't felt in a very, very long time, in a way he has never been able to describe and never wants to try. The arc reactor feels like it's about to fall out, like there's just a hole there except there isn't, because he can feel every inch of the parts that aren't there anymore, and what is there instead isn't enough.

It hits him, what's going on, and he struggles to get his shirts off, pulling and struggling and suffocating in them and not panicking, but really he is. There are other hands, hindering and then helping, and he fights with himself on who it could be before deciding ( _Yinsen_ ) that if they're not harming then they must not be trying to kill him, which is good. Together, he and the cool pair of hands work off the first shirt, then the second, and the third, finally tossing his tanktop (Tony's final line of defense) to reveal the pits and scars and the glowing white reactor in his chest -

except it's not glowing. It's just black, empty darkness behind the glass casing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would also like to add that the Audi that Clint and Natasha wrecked has a name. Let us all welcome Skittles, the A5 coupe, courtesy of kogouma! Unfortunately, if Skittles isn't tough enough to survive the next few chapters, then the poor thing will be eliminated. We're all rooting for you, Skittles!
> 
> (is Skittles male or female?)
> 
> EDIT: OMG DID IT ACTUALLY WORK THIS TIME? Yesssss! Sorry it was doing the stupid centering thing, but it wouldn't cooperate!


	16. run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony dies... The end. 
> 
> (Or not. Maybe. Blame vahinepapaya for the conversation responsible for this.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't have given up on me. ):  
> There are lots of reasons as to why I hadn't updated. I started my first semester of college, I finally got properly diagnosed with ADHD and medicated appropriately, my parents are hell-bent on keeping me away from the internet, I started a Pacific Rim fic because tHAT MOVIE GUYS, being a college student suddenly means I am given the schedule of a working adult, I kept missing my poor beta oh god, and I struggled endlessly with this chapter. I knew it was gonna be tough but when I made my promises last chapter, I was running on the successful-post high and didn't realize just how hard it would be for me. Like wow. I've spent my breaks between classes doing homework and staring at the blank document titled "rustfic stuffs". It was so unbelievably difficult, I can't even begin to explain it. This chapter devolved into a black ball of misery over these last two months, marking everything I did with the reminder that I couldn't get it done. Actual stress, guys. I went totally nuts, with how frustrating it was. And in the end, right here and now, I'm still not proud of how it turned out.
> 
> Somehow, over the last five months, over six hundred of you have gathered on AO3 or FF to wait for each chapter as it comes. Thank you all so much. So, so much. It always made my day better to get an email telling me I got kudos, or a favourite, or a follow or a review/comment. And I always felt terrible whenever I got one asking after updates. Just today I got one asking if I would ever update again and there's no way to put into words how sorry I am, how bad I feel about it. And this sounds really horrible, but I'd like to ask for a comment from each of you. Can you imagine? If all six hundred of you left just one or two words telling me how you felt after reading? I think I would cry. Real, serious, disgusting sobs of relief and happiness because there is nothing I need more right now than support from you. I need to know I'm doing okay, that your eyes didn't burn and that this story is worth the ten seconds it would take you to type a "good job" or "ew bad". Talk about insecurity issues, but I honestly need to know what you think. Please?
> 
> Gotta thank: szzzt for all the sporks and betaing/cheerleading; Kadigan for the full-on pom pom ensemble, saintly patience, and betaing; C for the support; Steeb for listening to my complaints; all of you guys for (hopefully) sticking with me.

_Hey Brucie, I'm heading to the shop and holding your favourite loafers hostage. Meet me there when you can. Sorry - T_

It's not about his favourite loafers. It's not about the stupid nickname he can't shake. It's about how Tony apologized, and isn't there to meet him when he steps through the door. It's about how the apartment they've shared for the past weeks is bare. It's about how he left Pepper, when he is so dedicated to that damn cat, and used her loyalty to him to ensure that she'd stick around to protect the note. It's about how the smoothies are gone, Tony's tools are gone, and the only thing left in the whole room aside from the furniture is a bottle of Hi-Clean. It's about how Tony said sorry, but not in person.

That's what worries him.

Bruce tucks the note into his pocket with a sigh. Pepper demands his attention as he hunts around the one-room apartment for any other clues. Tony's entire tool shelf is clear of everything but a few shavings. The pots and pans remain, but the food cupboard and fridge are empty. His picture of Betty, normally safely tucked away, is gone, along with the pillow it usually rests under. That razor and cup Tony won't talk about is missing, too, but his own shaving kit lies forgotten in the shower. Bruce packs it away and tucks it into his small travel bag, already having made up his mind to meet his friend (room mate) as soon as possible. Before he zips the bag shut he feels for the small case he went to Amravati for: seven syringes, three and a half months of borrowed time in a nine-inch long hard case. Reassured, he closes the bag up and gives Pepper a goodbye scratch. Her mournful blue stare burns into his back as he reaches the door. When he turns the knob, she mewls pitifully.

Damnit.

She curls up into his jacket with a purr, warm breeze ruffling her ginger fur as he carries her out the apartment to the shop. A few passersby greet him as he goes. The Starbucks ladies giggle behind their hands and ask why he's toting around Acervi's cat. He just shrugs, not entirely sure himself. It's not as if he could have just  _left her_. Not with that face. He knows she won't understand when he and Tony just... don't come back. No doubt it was hard for Tony to leave her, too.

Just, one last goodbye, or something. Because Bruce understands what it's like to leave everything behind. He has a feeling Tony's just familiar enough with the idea to be at least mostly practical about having to drop everything and run. He carefully doesn't think about why his companion might have experience with it. The idea gets the Hulk rumbling and shifting uneasily, which is really very uncomfortable; though they've never met, Hulk is very protective of Tony. Bruce suspects it might have to do with the other man referring to the monster as a person, as a 'he', as 'the other guy' or 'Big Green' and expressing a desire to meet him. Bruce used to refer to the Hulk as an 'it' or a 'thing', convinced the whole radiation disaster simply created a monster, or maybe just gave the monster in him a real form. But, of course, Tony goes out of his way to be contrary about everything.

_"How come you always call the other guy an it?"_

_"Because the Hulk is an it, Tony," Bruce answered patiently, shoving away the spark of irritation that makes itself known every time someone brings it up. "It's a mindless beast. It has no conscience, no sense of right or wrong. Once it's out it can't be stopped." He felt like a liar. On rare occasions the connection between them offered feelings as well as the customary images of death and destruction. He hadn't been able to pin a name to the feeling yet, however, and the Hulk refused to acknowledge his efforts. Therefore, he told himself, he is uncontrollable._

_"No, he's not an it," Tony said. "He's a he, and you can't convice me otherwise." He coughed into his crooked elbow, then wiped his face on his sleeve. Bruce made a face._

_"Gross, Tony, do you know how unsanitary that is?" He forced a box of tissues into Tony's hands. "So unsanitary," he added helpfully._

_Tony eyed the box with the same sort of distaste he usually saved for his chlorophyll. "Better to keep the germs localized than tossing snot-covered paper all over the place."_

_"That's what a trash bin is for." He bit the sentence off there; the word 'idiot' was heavily implied. "For your trash. Also," he felt the need to continue the argument, if only to make Tony see sense, "you have no logic to back up your opinion about the Hulk. You've never lived it. You've certainly never met it, because you wouldn't be here now if you had."_

_"I think I would," Tony said cheerily. "After all, you like me. Why don't you think he would like me too?"_

_"Because B-" He took a deep breath, forcing away memories of Betty's terrified face. "Because people I knew have met the monster and not come out of it alive. A lot of people."_

_"But not everyone." Tony, of course, zeroed in on the unsaid immediately. "Beanie Bear, you gotta loosen up. Have you ever tried talking to him?"_

_"What?" Bruce demanded, flustered. "Of course I've tried talking to hi - to it, but nothing's ever happened besides my control slipping and several acres of land being destroyed."_

_"Then you're not doing it right," Tony said brightly. "He's different from you. He's not a mean green science machine, you can't attack him with big tough questions the world's greatest minds can't answer. He's a - " Here he paused, clearly thinking hard. "No, see, you are a drama queen. You realize that, right?"_

_"I'm a what?"_

_"A drama queen," Tony repeated. "As in, you're making it all look worse than it is."_

_"Worse than it is," Bruce said, flatly. "How, exactly, am I exaggerating here? I've told you how much damage it's caused in the past, right?"_

_"You've told me about various situations in which you were backed into a corner," Tony corrected. He leaned back and crossed his arms. "When has he ever attacked first?"_

_"That doesn't matter," Bruce argued, growing more and more frustrated. How could he make Tony see? "I get angry. The Hulk comes out. Buildings collapse and people die. It can't be stopped."_

_"He," Tony insisted._

_"Why are you so stuck on its gender?!"_

_"Well," Tony said implacably, "does he have a dick?"_

_Bruce stared. "What?"_

_"A dick," Tony repeated. "A weiner, a pecker, a rod, man sausage, a third -" He broke off, brow furrowing. "You do have one, right? You're not, y'know -" He gestured vaguely at his pants._

_"Of course I do," Bruce snapped, exasperated and more than a little annoyed. Tony only grinned._

_"So if you do, and if the Hulk is just a big green you, then he," he stressed the last word, "is male. You have to call him a him. No arguments."_

_"Tony, you're missing the point -"_

_"No, you are," he interrupted. "Would you like being called an it all the time?"_

_Bruce thought, suddenly and unpleasantly, of General Ross. He shook his head._

_"Then there you go," Tony said, satisfied. "Call him something other than it. Call him, uh, the jolly green giant! Or The Other Guy, or He Who Must Not Be Named, or something."_

_"I'm not naming the Hulk after Voldemort." Bruce sighed, putting his head in his hands. "The 'other guy's' fine, I guess."_

_"Awesome. When can I meet him?"_

_"You can't."_

Bruce still doesn't feel like anything came out of that... discussion. The other guy, maybe, seems a little less displeased with life. But Bruce can't really tell, and honestly he'd rather not bother with it anyways. The world is safer without his trying to probe a monster's subconscious.

There's a hissing sound, accompanied by several tiny pinpricks on his chest. Pepper is squirming and digging her claws in like her life depends on it. Bruce holds her out away from his skin, checking to make sure she didn't draw blood; she didn't, but she's still got a firm hold on his shirt.

"What on earth is wrong with you?" he growls, shaking her a little in an attempt to free his clothes. She's glaring over her shoulder, ears flat against her skull and spitting at the building before them. When he glances up to look, she slips out of his grasp and darts towards the building's door. He wastes a moment staring after her, surprised. She's never acted out like that before, not that he's seen.

 _The shop_ , he realizes. Then,  _something's up_.

Bruce's first decision, of course, is to run the other way. It's almost instinct, but it's at least partially rational to a point: if danger is that way, then safety and no loss of control is in the opposite direction. But then he thinks,  _Tony_ , and then the Hulk thinks,  _Tony_ , and Bruce pauses.

Because he doesn't know what's happening behind that door. He doesn't know what's got Pepper clawing at it. He doesn't know if the shop's empty, or if Tony's really in there, or if SHIELD has arrested everyone in it, or maybe, something is happening right now and he's missing it.

 _What if something went wrong_?

He's still got 'a lid on it', he's still got  _control_ , and yet the sense of urgency generally associated with  _loss of control because Hulk_  is very much present. It's not the usual outpouring of suppressed emotion but it's enough to be worried about, and Bruce is very much surprised when he braces himself for  _outoutoutout_  and only gets  _move_.

What else can he do but move?

Pepper stops tearing her claws on the door and opts to weave between his legs and watch as he fumbles for the key. She doesn't wait for him; the moment the door opens enough for her to sneak through she does just that, disappearing into the unusual darkness of the workshop. He has to stop for a second and figure out why it's so odd, before realizing that he'd half expected for Tony to be working with the forge light brightening the whole place up. Instead, the forge is dark and the Iron Man armor is in pieces, scattered in a loose trail from its hangers to the pile of metal by the desk. Tony himself is conspicuously absent.

He can't stop staring at the dissembled suit, at how it's just been tossed onto the floor with little care, in stark contrast to how Tony treats every little piece. As he stares, he notes a few tiny dings in the smaller parts, the meticulously shaped corners that took hours in themselves. He can't imagine Tony ever letting this happen to the suit, much less the man himself doing the damage.

Despite the note, the empty apartment, Pepper, and Tony's absence, this is what scares Bruce the most.

Then he hears a tiny noise on the other side of the curtain, a familiar gasping cough, and the world on the other side of the curtain becomes real.

Pepper skitters to the side as he shoves his way through the chains, pushing away Tony's and sending the contents of the open pocket skidding across the floor. He almost slips on a wad of black fabric as the swinging chains collide with the backs of his legs but he doesn't notice, heart pounding as he looks around.

He sees Tony, and the world goes grey.

Bruce drops, jarring his knees painfully, and leans in close. He's doing this doctorly routine: check for a pulse, find nothing, check for breathing, find nothing, sit back on his heels and stare at the dead piece of technology in the chest, wonder if he could try CPR. Probably not, considering what he knows of human anatomy.

The reactor is dead, he processes. It needs to turn back on. It needs to have that unearthly blue glow, the comforting light from the dark that means someone's really there.

Someone steps into his line of vision. He looks up.

"Banner," Sarvankar says frantically. He drops the armful of machinery he lugged over and kneels next to Bruce. "Tell me what the hell this is, and how we can fix it."

The Hulk rumbles uneasily, shifting around in the back of his head and he latches on to that small piece of reality, the one that's not  _Tony'sdeaddeaddead_  so he can think.

"Tony's dead," he says anyways, and Sarvankar startles.

"Shit," he mutters, grabbing at the stuff he brought. "I was just, I just left for a second, he was breathing a second ago and it's not like I can do chest compressions, with - that, thing." He gestures at the reactor. "Bruce," he says urgently. "What do we do."

"It's an arc reactor," Bruce says numbly. In the back of his head, a small idea comes to life. "It keeps him alive, uh. Obviously. Tony never really told me about it," nothing that counts in a situation like this, "but it relates to his heart somehow, and powers a magnet that he keeps here." His hands move, hover over it and he bites his lip. "Which isn't being run, so we could just - take it out, and find out what's wrong."

"What," Sarvankar yelps, "no, don't touch it!"

But he allows Bruce to do it anyways: the simple twist and click that he's watched Tony do a dozen times, a hundred. With a little hiss it comes free and he tugs off the wires, bringing it up to eye level so he can examine it.

It's beautiful.

"Shit," Sarvankar is saying, "shit shit shit that thing is so big what the hell is going on -"

"But the flashlight needs batteries," Bruce muses, turning it over in his hands. He prods at a little black rectangle. A small black rectangle pops out, like it was spring loaded. It smokes and pops as it goes and Bruce catches it when it slides out.

"Palladium," he explains, weighing it in his hands.

"You're just sitting there," Sarvankar says nervously, "while Acervi is dying. Aren't you a doctor?"

_A hiss, two clicks, and the rustling of plastic._

_"What exactly are you doing over there, Mr Unsubtle?"_

_"I'll have you know I am very subtle," Tony retorted, not turning away from his work desk. "I am the king of subtlety. I mean, look at how I sneak across borders as Iron Man. I am nothing short of subtle and mysterious."_

_"Oh, sure," Bruce snorted, turning the page of his magazine. "A big silver suit of flying armor, coming to save the day and blow up the bad guys. Shows off for the news copters and accepts the name Iron Man. You've got the entire world's eye on you and yet you maintain your secret identity for all but the lovely physicist. You, Clark Kent, have mastered the Glasses Disguise and we are all in awe. Except me, because you work for me and I see you in your boxer shorts."_

_"That got away from you, Lois."_

_"Maybe," Bruce agreed, "but I'm not the one with the story to maintain."_

_Tony snorted. "So I get to kiss you at the bottom of the next crater I make?"_

_"Ansolutely not, you've got alien space germs. Are you trying to hide a bag of chips from me or something?" Bruce asked._

_The rustling stopped. "No," Tony sighed, "I'm changing my batteries."_

_"You're what."_

_"Palladium, Miss Lane," Tony explained with forced cheer. He turned in his chair and waved a small ziploc bag of what looked like cell phone batteries. "One of these."_

_"I see," Bruce said idly. "So you're the Energizer Bunny."_

_"I do look good in pink."_

_"Does all the energy go to your mouth?"_

_"My mouth is good for a lot of things."_

_"How well does it do under duct tape?"_

"Not really," Bruce says, "but I try." He gets to his feet and shuffles over to the backpack. A moment's digging is all he needs to pull out the bag of palladium cores.

"That asshole," he says, coming back over and rejoining Tony's boss on the floor. "Here, hold this," and tosses the burnt chip to him, opening the bag and snatching up a new one. "So this should work," he says while Sarvankar stares.

A slide, a click. The arc reactor accepts the palladium so he does the next reasonable step: put it back in.

Nothing happens. The reactor stays dark. Tony doesn't move.

His heart clenches. "Well," he says blankly, "do you have a defibrillator?"

"Is that a good idea?"

"Definitely not, but the reactor must need a charge." Bruce closes his eyes, steps away from the situation before he can properly panic. "You got something?"

"Jumper cables?" Sarvankar says nervously.

Ah.

"I can't be here," Bruce mumbles, pressing a hand to his head. "I literally can't, okay." He takes a deep breath, sighs it out. "You do... that, I am going to go outside and try not to freak out so I don't kill everybody."

"What? No, but I don't-" And that was a squeak, but Bruce is gone.

He steps outside into the warm, humid night. Deep breaths, he reminds himself. Stay detached from the situation. Don't panic. He slides to the dusty ground, head between his legs, and breathes. The Hulk mutters once, fades away.

Pepper reappears, sidling up to him and curling up.

They wait.

"You're an ass," someone says. Bruce looks up. Sarvankar stands in the doorway, arms crossed and glaring. His grey shirt has some black scorch marks and sticks to his skin.

"I know," Bruce sighs, and follows him inside.

Leaning against the dirty tire of a car isn't much better than lying on the floor, and he's still terribly grey, but Tony still huffs out a laugh when Bruce walks in.

"That was your one free pass," he says in Spanish. "Next time I'm convulsing on the floor, you have to stay with me."

"Next time, change your own damn batteries," Bruce snaps, in English. He's finally coming down, feeling the end of the adrenaline rush he didn't know he had, and he shivers. "I do not, I can't," he swallows, guilt and shame and stress threatening to overwhelm him, "don't pull this shit again."

"I'll have you to look out for me," Tony says cheerily. "You're looking a teeny bit green, beanie bear. Take a deep breath."

"You were  _dead_ ," Bruce says accusingly, jabbing a finger. "You  _died_ , you asshole, and I couldn't even -" He turns to Sarvankar, who takes a careful step back. "How did you-"

He just shrugs, pointing to the mess of wires and metal. "Treated it like a faulty car battery," he says offhandedly. "Blew out half the lights but it worked. That thing," he indicates the glowing reactor, "has a kick."

Tony snorts. "Yeah."

His boss turns and glowers at Tony, crossing his arms. "Yeah, and before you go changing the subject, we need to talk about this."

**8**

It occurs to him, several minutes after they've left, that Acervi (his real name's  _Tony_ , for shit's sake, even if he sort of knew it was never Acervi to begin with) was a liar. Almost everything his friend said in the last three years was bullshit to some degree, but Nikhil can't find it in himself to be upset about it. Especially, he figures, after what just happened.

What  _did_  just happen, really? He's so lost, he's not even sure. One minute Acervi (Tony?) is leaving, then he's talking, then he's dying on the shop floor with a dead light bulb sticking out of his ribcage; thirty minutes later he's left with his friend and the Americans' Audi, half the shop lights are blown out, and Nikhil is stuck with the man's cat. Also, apparently the Americans are going to come with reinforcements because  _apparently_  Mother Hen the Roomie is some sort of monster. The big monster, they said. The green one, y'know, with the muscles and anger issues?

 _No_ , as a matter of fact, he does  _not_ , but it seems like something he should have been concerned about. Should still be concerned about, even though the pair is long gone and they've dealt just fine up to this point, as far as he knows. It's too late to say anything, he supposes. He'd spent too much time wondering what exactly was going on.

Pepper settles on the front seat of the Toyota but he can't find it in him to care that the owner's allergic to cats.

So what's he supposed to do now? Pretend he never played Frankenstein with his best friend and move on with life?  _Right_. And what, exactly, is he supposed to do when this mysterious agency comes asking for the pair of them? Deflect? Outright lie? Equivocate his way out of the conversation? Can you even do that to super government spies?

Nikhil has never hailed himself as a truly honest man, but flat out bullshitting is very much beyond him.

It's nearing one in the morning now, and all he can get himself to do is watch Pepper and fiddle with Acervi's (Tony's) favourite red screwdriver. He wonders if he's going to get the Audi back in time to return it to its owner. Maybe he'll never get it back at all. What if they put a tracker on the car? Would A- _Tony_  have noticed that?

Alright, that has to stop. How's he supposed to talk about him, because Nikhil has no doubt that he will, if he can't even get the man's name straight?

 _Just stick with the familiar_. Tony's been Acervi for three years. Why should that change now? He shouldn't even know about a change.

He groans and drops his head into his hands. This is impossible.

There's a knock at the entrance, a thin slab of wood to the right of the garage door. Nikhil stills, listening.

 _The government spies_. Just what he needs. He stands, slipping the tool into his pocket, and hurries over to answer. He's trying to come up with something to say, but essentially all he can come up with is  _shitshitshitshitfuck great timing, you damn liars are you even going to pay for the repairs?_

"Good morning," he says brightly, in English. The redhead gives him a sunny smile, momentarily distracting him from the hand at her waist and black clothing.

"Mr Sarvankar," she greets him. "I was hoping you'd still be open."

"I run a 24-hour shop," he answers, frantically running through his memory for her name, "Miss Richards."

"So we need our car back," the man says. Nikhil glances at him: same dark clothing as hers.

"I'm afraid it's not finished," he lies with the pretending-to-be-sorry voice he uses on customers he doesn't really like. "the mechanic in charge of your car doesn't have the night shift." Richards' eyes narrow slightly, and he can't help but fidget nervously.

 _Keep it together_.

"When does he come in?" she asks sweetly.

"Ah, well," he says apologetically, "he's on sick leave." And he's not handling this well, so he needs to get out before his paltry bullshitting skills are overtaxed.

"Can't someone else do it?" the man demands.

"No," comes out of his mouth as he quietly curses himself. "Only one man per job, I'm afraid. That's the store policy."

No one mentions the fact that several guys had helped Acervi yesterday.

"That's too bad," Richard says, deflating. A moment later, she perks up again, as though she's gotten an idea. "Can we see how far along it is?"

His stomach drops.  _They know_.

"I'm sorry, but no customers in the early morning hours," he says, fighting to stay calm. "I know we say we're open 24/7, but because there are less staff around in the morning we can't allow customers in. It's a safety concern."

"Oh, really?" Richards nods, and suddenly there's a gun at his temple. Her smile vanishes. "I think we'll be okay."

"You're under arrest," her companion says, "for employing a terrorist. Among other things, but it's a long list."

"A  _terrorist_?" Nikhil repeats incredulously. "I've done no such thing -"

"SHIELD will be taking control of this property while you're in questioning," Richards says, and smiles again. "Don't worry, I'm sure your assistant manager will be in to reopen the shop after his," she pauses, "sick leave."

_Dammit, Acervi._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a lighter note, I'd like to remind you that if you kill me, there will never be another update. On a glowing-light-bulb note, the hard part is over! And I won't struggle nearly as hard with any future chapters (and boy will there be chapters because posting this is SUCH A MAJOR LOAD OFF MY MIND)! No promises on a in-three-days update but I want a long wait in between chapters as much as you do.
> 
> In reference to the sheer masses of perfect people who are reading this, I'd like to ask again for your support in the form of a review. One day I'll actually video my next-morning reaction to my inbox after posting and share it with you, bedhead and all.


	17. what now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tony and Bruce leave. They are never seen again. The end."
> 
> No but really, vahinepapaya is a genius and I love her summaries (see: chapter 16's and this one). Actually I'm a big fan of predictions, which is what her summarizing attempts are, so if you've got one I'll giggle and stick it up here in the summary box next chapter. :D  
>  On the note of summaries, by the way, sorry the main summary keeps changing, I JUST. COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER EVERY OTHER DAY AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I just want you to know that you did it. You made me cry. Tears of happiness, of course, relief, and there were only a couple but damn. Your support really means so much to me, guys, I can't even find the words to tell you. In other news, you've spoiled me, and so I hope I can continue to get just as much feedback as I got last chapter. Pretty, pretty please? With a thousand cherries on top? And strawberries, which I hope you're not allergic to? I'd offer kiwis, but I happen to be allergic to those, so. Seriously, though, the response I got for chapter 16 was mindblowing. MIND. BLOWING. With this in mind I hope I'm continuing to keep you interested -- of course, the only way I'll know is if you comment and tell me. It was the biggest relief, and I was so so happy to even get smiley faces (actually those are fun cuz I try to turn them into smiley wars). 
> 
> Also also!! College is still kicking my sorry ass, yes, but it's not so bad at the moment so I ended up writing a majority of the chapter today. With the KaddyTM stamp of approval, here we are now! Thanks so much for your concern and support! 
> 
> Now, I have a couple questions for you!! It seems that Peppercat is sticking around, so that's great. How did you feel about the POV switch? Steve and Tony is comfortable, but Sarvankar and Bruce? They were a challenge, and I want to know if you'd like to see different POVs again, and if so, whose? AlsoalsoALSO, I'm going to do the video thing I mentioned last chapter -- that is, where I post this at night and the next morning I'm literally gonna sit up and turn on the vid camera so you can see my ratty bedhead as I roll around and squeal. For chapter 18, though, because I'm a loser who's posting this too soon. You can't blame me, though -- I'm so excited to post I can't wait a whole day. XD 
> 
> HEY GUYS CHECK IT OUT!!!! AnonEhouse GAVE ME FANART. FANART, PEOPLE. THIS BEAUTIFUL PERFECT PERSON I COULD LOVE ALL OVER FOREVER DREW PEPPERCAT. I'M SO EXCITED I THINK I COULD DIE. She was also kind enough to give me the code so I could embed it into this chapter, else I would have been totally lost. Thanks SOOOOO MUCH!
> 
> Right, well, hope you lovelies aren't too upset at me for the wait. I made an effort to both not stress myself out too much and post within a month (failed at the second part, but only by a couple days) and here I am (nervous as can be, oh god)! So, enjoy! 
> 
> Just a quick reminder, since there are so many new guys out there (HELLO NEW GUYS I LOVE YOU THANKS FOR COMING!!!), Kadigan's fic, Revision? Is amazing. Stunning and extremely well-written (like, why is she so good it's not fAIR) and just!! If you ever wanted that fic that really gets into Tony's time in the caves, with all the pain and feels and it's so fucking realistic and perfect, okay, go. Go read it now. Click AWAAAY from rustfic, I'll still be here when you're done screaming over Revision. Great, thanks. :D 
> 
> Thanks go to: szzzt for the support and beta skills (also, I had some leftover sporks from last chapter and those were helpful); Kadigan for her patience, tennis racket (it's so fun to bounce ideas around with her), and beta skills; C for the support and beta skills; and the readers, because I love you all.

The atmosphere is stifling. Tony glowers out the window and offers silent apologies to his poor neighbor for the misery they're about to cause him.

 

The car rolls to a halt on the corner behind the metalworking factory. Tony shifts in his seat, chancing a quick glance to the right. Bruce has his hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead with a neutral expression. 

 

Tony clears his throat, starts, "I can --"

 

"No." 

 

"... All right." 

 

Bruce parks and turns the car off, weighing the keys in his hands. It's silent for another several minutes. 

 

"I'm mad at you," he says eventually, in English, and Tony startles. "For several reasons, none of which I want to talk about. What I do want to tell you, though, is that under no circumstances will you be doing any sort of heavy lifting or exercise for the next few days, nor will you be driving or arguing about it. You will drink your smoothie, you will help me break into this factory, and you will wait in the car while I get rid of the armor." He's still looking down at the keys.

 

Tony scowls, frustrated, but he has no room to argue. This was his fuckup, the whole thing, and now he feels nothing less than obligated to make sure it doesn't happen again. 

 

In the three weeks they've lived together, Bruce has figured out that he, at the very least, understands English, and suspects he can speak it too, but it's awkward and uncomfortable to try. Also, he feels like being the slightest bit stubborn, so he answers in his customary Spanish. "Fine." 

 

"Thank you." Bruce drops the key ring into a cup holder and pulls the little lever to pop the trunk. "Let's go." 

 

Silently, Tony complies. 

 

It's almost physically painful to watch Bruce carefully stack and carry half the disassembled suit to the loading zone. The feeling morphs into nausea as he turns away to hack through the lock system via the keypad outside. When Bruce nods at him, he slips away back to the car, thoroughly cowed and miserable. 

 

This sucks. 

 

It's twenty minutes before Bruce is finished with both trips, and he realizes the exact moment the factory finds out what happened when the alarms blare. Bruce reappears, sprinting through the door they opened. Tony leans over and opens the car door for him, barely getting back to his own side before the other man is sliding in and grabbing at the keys. In moments they're speeding away, checking the rear view mirrors for security and seeing no one. 

 

"It was ridiculous," Bruce says after several long minutes of silence. "Giant, open vats of liquid iron, just like the movies." 

 

Tony can't help but laugh. It sets Bruce off, too, and the tension fades to nothing as they giggle like schoolgirls over their crime. 

 

Their crime, which was literally throwing the armor into a vat of molten metal to destroy it. 

 

_Don't think too hard about it. You knew this would have to happen eventually._

 

But the moment's been ruined, and Tony turns to stare out the window once more. Bruce sighs.

 

"Tony," he begins, but doesn't continue. 

 

"I wish we'd brought Pepper," Tony says suddenly, tickled by the idea. "Don't you have to have the obnoxious pet on every road trip? Y'know, to crawl all over you and piss on the seats?" 

 

"And get into our luggage?" Bruce asks, smiling. "No thanks."

 

Tony heaves a dramatic sigh, hell bent on brightening the dark mood he brought in. "Well if we can't have cat piss everywhere, we have to at least have the map we'll always read upside down. Where's the map, Brucie? Or did you already get frustrated and eat it?"

 

" _Eat it_?" Bruce repeats in disbelief. "In what movie has anyone eaten the map out of frustration?" 

 

"Never mind, we all know you did it. So, we're lost!"

 

"Who's we? And no, we are not _lost_ \--"

 

"Sure we are! It's all part of the fun! This is the part where we desperately search for civilization." 

 

"We're going to the train station, Tony." 

 

"And where's that, Beanie Bear?" Tony challenges. Bruce actually turns away from the road to give him a look. 

 

"A mile and a half that way." 

 

"And where's _that way_?"

 

"Oh my god, Tony. _Stop_."

 

The easy banter is extremely helpful. Tony's never actually been targeted before, not since Afghanistan, and certainly not because of the suit. There's never been a mad dash for his workshop under fire, a desperate need for the suit to fight something that struck first. When he went around blowing up Stark weapons, of course, the terrorists fought back, but rarely did any real damage. He always felt safe with the Iron Man, and safe without it. There's never been a need for the armor, outside of his own desire to blow shit up. So why does he suddenly feel so vulnerable? 

 

Those agents aren't even after him.  They acted upon hearing Bruce's name. They didn't slip up when they saw his face, when they were curious about his corner; they reacted when Tony spoke wrong and ran outside shortly after, presumably to report to whatever higher-ups there may be. There was no doubt they'd be back with reinforcements, but why did Tony run, too? 

 

It's all very meta and introspective, and he's glad for the distraction. 

 

The ride to the train station is filled with snorting laughter and stupid jokes, Tony's incessant needling and Bruce's quippy comebacks all but banishing the last stubborn bits of negativity completely. 

 

Bruce and Tony, talented bullshitters that they are, clean all obvious evidence out of the car before ditching it in the massive parking lot two blocks away from the station and casually make their way to the place without arousing any suspicion. Tony accesses a bank account he hasn't looked at in three years, pulling several thousand dollars in savings from working in the shop under a name he hasn't used since he was given the pin number in Pakistan. Bruce doesn't blink, picking up their companionable bickering flawlessly in Spanish. Tony grins and follows his lead through the station, never having been here himself. Nagpur's a big place, with visitors of all sorts and no one bats an eye at the use of a European language around here. 

 

"So," Tony says conversationally, hitching the only bag Bruce would allow him to carry higher on his aching shoulder, "where are we going from here? Aside from not-India, I mean." 

 

"Not India," Bruce replies, arching an eyebrow. "There's a good start." 

 

Tony makes a face at the ceiling, sighing. "Right. Is there anywhere in the world you always wanted to visit but never could?"

 

"Wakanda," Bruce suggests, "but curiosity's not going to get us past those borders." 

 

"Hm," Tony agrees, though he files the idea away for later contemplation. Does crash landing a jet on their land ten years ago and not apologizing to the king count as a reason to go back? They're a secretive bunch, and it's not as if they'd go tattling if he told them about the... new look. He'll just have to be a little sneaky, talk to them when Brucie isn't looking and -- 

 

"Tony," the man sighs, and _right_. So much for later contemplation. "You've been staring at the ceiling for over a minute."

 

Tony looks over and grins. “I was brainstorming.”

 

Bruce scoffs. "You don’t need that much time to think up an idea. I know you.”

 

“There were lots of ideas, Brucie,” Tony argues. “ _So_ many ideas.”

 

“About?”

 

“Apologizing.”

 

Bruce sighs, deflating a little. “I don’t need an apology, Tony.”

 

“Right. Uh, good.” _Not for you, Brucie Bear, but okay_. “So where are we going?”

 

Bruce sighs, dropping the three bags he’s carrying by a cafe table and taking a seat. “Come on, we might be here awhile.”

 

A solid thirty-five minutes later, Tony’s about ready to throw Bruce’s stupidly perfect laminated maps out the window, or maybe see how well they burn. It’s not their fault that the world is so stupid, he knows, but still.

 

“Why,” he complains, “are there so many goddamn borders?” He takes a sulky sip of his coffee, because yes, taking sulky sips of coffee is a relatively decent substitute for taking out his frustrations on the maps.

 

Bruce shakes his head, folding them neatly and stacking them next to his cup of tea. “There are lots of countries in Europe,” he points out. “If we want a chance of losing SHIELD, we need to follow this route.”

 

“Ugh,” Tony says, but leaves it at that. He tosses back the rest of his drink and watches Bruce carefully pack it all away. When he lowers his arm, he tugs at the sleeve instinctually, but a thought makes him pause. He stares down at the dark fabric, and rolls it back a little.

 

The black lines look like marker, like silver sharpie on black drawn onto the white of his wrist. They’ve crawled up to the second wrinkle before his hand, just centimeters away and he knows the spread will only be faster after it reaches his palm. That he’ll only have days, because Bruce confirmed what he learned months ago: when the poison reaches the tips of his fingers, he’s dead.

 

Right. He swallows, imagines the taste of palladium mixed with blood, and really it’s not all that hard to imagine at all.

 

“Hey, Beanie Bear?” he asks, and his voice sounds a little off. “Maybe, uh, we should split up halfway, or something.”

 

Bruce doesn’t answer. Tony looks up, almost surprised to see the other man staring at his bare wrist.

 

“I mean,” he says, _in for a penny, right?_ “Clearly I’m not going to be a whole lot of use, and really it’s easier to illegally cross borders alone --”

 

“Absolutely not,” Bruce says sharply. Tony’s mouth snaps shut. “Sorry,” he adds, “but you’re stuck with me.”

 

“But with --”

 

“I can’t believe I forgot,” Bruce continues, as though Tony hadn’t opened his mouth, “but with the whole mess in the shop, it just slipped my mind.” He slips the rest of the papers into his briefcase and pulls out a solid plastic case. It’s a dull black, about nine inches long, and it looks pretty tough but Bruce is holding it as though it’s made of glass.

 

“What’s that?” comes out of his mouth, but Bruce seems happy to answer.

 

“This is what I was doing in Amravati,” he says with a hint of pride.

 

Tony pulls his sleeve back down and eyes the case. “Uh huh,” he says doubtfully. “And what is it?”

 

Now Bruce hesitates, one hand on the textured black surface. “I don’t want to call it a _cure_ for the damage the palladium caused, but maybe… a band-aid?”

 

Tony stares.

 

“Well,” Bruce says thoughtfully, “a highly experimental band-aid, but I managed to get the fatality rate down to twenty percent, so it should be alright.”

 

“Fatality rate,” Tony repeats.

 

“Hey, it used to be fifty.”

 

“ _Fifty percent_ \--”

 

“Not anymore. Now it’s twenty.”

 

_“Twenty percent fatality rate.”_

 

“Yes, Tony,” Bruce says patiently. “But I’m entirely confident that it will work just fine.”

 

Tony points at the box. “No.” His finger moves up and jabs Bruce in the forehead. “ _No_. I don’t _know_ what it is, I don’t _want_ to find out, I _don’t_ want to die any sooner.”

“Tony,” Bruce says, “it’s lithium dioxide.”

 

“That doesn’t exist,” is the immediate reply.

 

“Well, I got with some important people and now it does.” Bruce taps the case. “I promise it’ll help, Tony. There’s seven shots of it in here, enough for over three months. It’s not a permanent fix, but it’ll help.”

 

Tony crosses his arms and glowers at the case. Bruce sits back and allows him to think it over, carefully, taking everything he and Bruce have discussed into consideration.

 

It’s quiet for a long time.

 

“You’re sure,” Tony asks.

 

“I’m sure.”

 

He can trust Bruce. He _can_.

 

“Shots, you said?” he says casually. “Does that mean we’re going to the back alley? No one pays attention to the druggies, right?”

 

Bruce rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “How about we be less suspicious in the bathroom?”

 

“Ew,” Tony complains, but gets up to follow anyways. “Unsanitary conditions, too?”

 

“I’m a _doctor_ , Tony.”

 

**8**

 

“But that doesn’t really _mean_ much at this point, does it? We already know,” Clint argues, eyeing the rumpled bundle of fur with distaste.

 

“Yes,” Natasha agrees, stroking the cat between the ears, “but that we were able to bring her along tells us that Mr Sarvankar knows Stark isn’t coming back soon. He probably promised to take care of her.”

 

“I can see that,” Clint concedes. “He wouldn’t think too hard about keeping his promise. He probably didn’t even consider leaving her behind, even though it would make more sense to if her owner’s only on sick leave.”

 

“And now we can call bullshit,” she says cheerfully. The cat is purring, and looking vaguely pissed about it. Steve supposes they must appear to be her enemies, what with their ganging up on her human friend and taking him away. She certainly approached them with hostile intentions, tail lashing and ears flat against her head. Ten pounds or not, it was intimidating, and he's content with the assumption that only the most dangerous ladies can stare each other down and come out unscathed.

 

“But we can’t reasonably bring her along,” Steve objects halfheartedly. He’s not really protesting, though -- the cat is adorable now that she's not trying to maul the Black Widow and he wouldn’t mind spending the trip caring for her. “The paperwork alone would be ridiculous.”

 

“Coulson can do anything,” Clint says, resting his head on the seat in front of him. “There’s a form for everything, and if there isn’t, he’ll make one.”

 

“Get out of the car,” Natasha orders. “And quit sulking. Are you really that surprised that they stole the Audi?”

 

“Hey,” Clint protests, “it was a nice Audi.” He gets out of the dismantled Toyota anyways.

 

“All we did was trash it,” Natasha points out, dumping the cat into his arms. He yelps when the cat digs her claws into his vest, and flails awkwardly. Steve tugs her off him and cradles her in his arms, not minding the tiny pinpricks as she wiggles around in search of a comfortable position.

 

“Stupid cat,” Clint mutters. The cat hisses back.

 

“Wow,” Natasha’s voice comes from behind them. She sticks her head out from behind a wall of curtains and hanging chains. “Found Iron Man’s hidey hole.”

 

“Really?” And then Clint is gone, ducking into the back room to see what she’s talking about. “ _Whoa_ ,” Steve hears. Eyebrows raised and curiosity piqued, he follows.

 

The other room is clearly a cleaned out workshop. Miscellaneous tools hang from the walls, tiny sheets of scrap metal and metal shavings littering the tables. There are molds of all sorts by the dark furnace. An unfinished mask, clearly belonging to Iron Man, glowers down from a hook, gunmetal grey and stamped with numbers. Two dozen other hooks hang at various heights beneath it. The space is dark, and dangerous with so much unsafe machinery scattered as it is. The cat seems perfectly comfortable, though, leaping from his arms to land neatly on one of the worktables. Her paw is millimeters away from something extremely sharp and pointed upwards, but she seems used to the clutter.

 

Clint holds up a rounded piece of metal; it takes a moment for Steve to recognize it as a large finger. “Someone was in a rush.”

 

“Coulson’s going to love this,” Natasha says, looking closely at the mask. “These look like serial numbers. Guess we know where the weaponry he was blowing up went.”

 

Steve thinks about this. Something doesn’t make sense. “It was all Stark weaponry, right? That Iron Man was blowing up?”

 

“That’s what we think,” Natasha agrees.

 

“So why was Tony Stark blowing up Stark weapons?” he asks. There's a long pause, during which the cat settles herself and the two agents have a conversation with their eyebrows. Steve's feeling a little out of the loop.

 

“Shit,” Clint says, blinking.

 

“Maybe Mr Sarvankar will know,” Natasha says, and now they’re all wondering.

 

“What I really want to know,” Steve continues, “is why Mr Stark became Iron Man instead of returning to the States.”

 

“To blow up Stark tech,” Clint answers, brow furrowed. “Which he couldn’t do in the States, because it’s all over here.”

 

“And why did he want to blow up his company’s technology?” Natasha asks.

 

“It’s not his company now,” Steve says. “It’s Stane Industries.”

 

“ _Shit_ ,” Clint says loudly.

 

“So something’s up in SI,” Natasha muses. “Now, why is Stark on the run with the Hulk?”

 

“Mr Sarvankar doesn’t know,” says a new voice, and Coulson slips in to join them. He takes a look around. “Stark’s workshop?”

 

“Looks like it.”

 

“Messy. Sarvankar doesn’t actually know anything about the Hulk,” Coulson continues, adjusting his suit jacket. “Nothing that we don’t know, and by that I mean his name and that he’s friends with Acervi.”

 

“Who is Tony Stark,” Clint supplies.

  
“Who is Tony Stark,” Coulson agrees. “He doesn’t know how they met, or when, exactly. He knows that Doctor Banner is in fact, a doctor -- Mr Stark’s doctor.”

 

“Why,” Clint tilts his head, “is he sick?”

 

“For months. We don't know what he's got,” Coulson says, and that shuts Clint up. _Another thing to wonder about_. He looks over at the cat on the table. “I assume we’re keeping her?”

 

“If at all possible,” Steve says, unable to keep the small hope from his voice.

 

Coulson smiles, just a little. “Her name is Pepper.”

 

Natasha snorts indelicately. “Definitely Tony Stark. Pepper Potts,” she adds at Steve’s confused look. “His PA for ten years. He was infatuated, whether he knew it or not.”

 

“Apparently still is,” Clint observes, and Natasha snorts again.

 

“That’s kind of… romantic,” says Steve, staring down at Pepper the cat. She blinks up at him innocently with wide blue eyes.

 

“It’s sweet,” Natasha says, “I’ll give him that."

 

"There's another thing," Coulson announces. "The factory down the street's had an incident. One of our agents called in, saying something about impure metals contaminating a vat of iron. Iron Man melted the suit."

 

"But he could have more," Clint says, and Coulson nods. Pepper jumps off the table and crawls under the desk.

 

“Where do we go from here?” Steve still isn’t sure. It was never as easy to slip away like Doctor Banner and Mr Stark just did.

 

“We check out the factory and go from there. Things work a bit differently around here,” Natasha explains. “We can’t just get control of security cameras and the like around here. We’re going to have to be more conspicuous, but it shouldn’t matter as much as it would if our targets had more resources than they do.”

 

Pepper’s tail reappears, twitching from side to side as she struggles to pull something out with her. Steve squats, scooping her up with one hand and a dusty blue pillow with the other. Or, not a pillow, but a cushion of some sort. It’s nearly as big as she is, and well loved, coated thoroughly in dark ginger fur and clawmarks.

 

Coulson eyes the thing with distaste. “That _rag_ is not coming with us.”

 

“I dunno,” Steve says, watching the cat knead the lumps and curl up, “I think she’s pretty attached.”

 

“Yeah, she’s not going to let us leave it behind,” Clint observes. Coulson just shakes his head.

 

“I’ll go get the papers,” he sighs, “and you can go check out the factory. Meet back here in two hours.” With that, he leaves. Steve watches Pepper curl her tail over her nose.

 

“If you don’t mind,” he says, “I want to stay here and see if I can find anything else that belongs to her.”

 

“Cool,” says Clint, already slipping away. “Leave the fun spy stuff to us.”

  
“Don’t be an idiot,” he hears Natasha say, and then they’re gone.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to call this a filler chapter, but it's certainly not of great substance. There's a reason for that, and I think you can guess. XD If you can't, think calm-before-the-storm.
> 
> Hey, if you didn't notice, this fic is the first in a seeeeeeries nooooooow! //gleeful cackling


	18. get back up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **VERY IMPORTANT END NOTES MAKE SURE YOU READ THEM THANKS**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Wow, so this... took a while. Also, you may have noticed the countdown. That's right, the chapter count is official. Oh boy. //nervous gulp// I've never finished a story before. 
> 
> Sorry this took so long... the SHIELD end of things is getting harder to write. Also, I don't have access to a laptop anymore, so all my writing and posting is done from my iPod Touch. Which is hard. And not fun. At least the notepad app is useful. 
> 
> Thanks to Kadigan for her wonderful beta skills and unbreakable bullshit meter. Also to C, who's helped me sort out my thoughts and solidify the plot for the rest of this fic.

"Are you humming?"

 

Tony inhales deeply, rolling over in bed to peer at Bruce in the doorway. "Hey, Beanie Bear. You know, standing in the doorway like that makes you look so creepy, get in here. Seriously."

 

Bruce obliges, setting grocery bags on the counter. He raises his eyebrows. "Were you humming 'happy birthday'?"

 

Tony flops back onto the bed with a sigh. "Hm? Yeah."

  
"Dare I ask why?"

 

Tony considers this for a few moments. He and Bruce have been traveling together for two weeks now, sharing carefully worded pieces of their histories out of context. But no matter how vague they're being, they're friends, and Tony finds he can put more of his trust in the other man than he's bothered with in years. "Because it's my birthday," he finally admits.

 

"Is it?" Bruce smiles, closing and locking the door behind him before going to take care of the groceries. "Happy birthday, Tony."

 

"Blugh," Tony complains. "Don't say that, I feel old. Plus, we can't really afford an awesome celebration."

 

He can hear the smile in Bruce's voice. "Well," the doctor says as he slides the milk into the minifridge, "I happen to have a present for you."

 

"Do you?" Tony sits up, curiosity piqued. Bruce grins from across the room.

 

"You bet I do. Get my briefcase for me?"

 

With a groan that's only partly exaggerated, Tony heaves himself to his feet. Bruce, cruel monster that he is, watches him drag his sorry self all the way across the room to the rickety desk where his briefcase sits. He grabs the thing and shuffles awkwardly back, moving stiffly in hopes of jostling his aching limbs as little as possible. He adjusts his grip on the case handle, then shuffles carefully over to where Bruce continues to store groceries.

 

The doctor fiddles with the clasps as he takes it with a word of thanks, supporting it with one hand and reaching in with the other.

 

"You're moving a little stiffly," be observes. "Something wrong?"

 

Tony sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I feel like I'm ninety."

 

"So you are stiff, and tired, and in pain," Bruce guesses, correctly. _Of course_. "Joints aching? Is the visible damage worse?"

 

"Came back with a vengeance, the nasty bitch," Tony agrees. "'s worse than before we starting moving."

 

Bruce makes a small sound of triumph, tucking something -- Tony's not really looking at what he's doing, instead staring at the variety of strange fruits peeking out of a grocery bag -- under one arm and balancing the briefcase on the tiny strip of counter space in front of the fridge. "Well the obvious answer from the start was fluids and bedrest, but this is you and the situation doesn't really permit it."

 

Tony hums, curious gaze drifting to the overgrown curls on the back of the other man's head. He's fiddling with something Tony can't see.

 

"Thankfully you'll have a couple days to do just that," he continues, turning around with a grim smile. "We can afford to take a little time to let the serum attack the poison." He's holding a syringe, using it to gesture vaguely at the minifridge. "I happen to have brought in this interesting dessert I came across today, looks sorta like pound cake. It's not exactly what your body needs, but," he shrugs, "I've found you're easily influenced with caffeine and sugar. No coffee on bedrest," he adds in warning, "but you like pound cake, don't you?"

 

Tony still has his eyes on the needle. "Is that more of your Lithium concoction?" He makes a face. "Lovely. Excellent. Beautiful. _Fan_ tastic --"

 

"Tony," Bruce cuts in gently. He offers up an alcohol swab.

 

"Oh, boy," Tony says, grimacing. "I'm not sure whether to kiss you or run screaming."

 

"You could sit still," his friend suggests.

 

"Yeah." Tony takes the swab and prods at his neck with it. "Where--?"

 

"You got it. Hold still--" And suddenly there's a grey shirt in his face and he freezes at the sting of the needle pushing into his skin.

 

The serum itself is icy fire, shooting through his veins in an instant. It's not a painless experience. Bruce carefully pulls out the needle and puts everything away while Tony sits there with his fists clenched, waiting out the burn. "There. Happy birthday."

 

"Thanks," Tony sighs on a shaky exhale. Bruce just nods, taking pillows from the end of the bed and carrying them into the bathroom. "All set?"

 

"I'll get you some water," is the doctor's reply. "You okay?"

 

"Give it a few seconds," Tony mutters, and then the nausea hits.

 

**8**

 

"You know," Tony says between globs of spit and bile, "water really doesn't wash out the taste."

 

"I only have one bottle of ginger ale," Bruce says apologetically. "I figured you'd want to save it for after."

 

"After when? After the fourth or fifth round of puking my guts out?" Tony coughs. "Or do I have to wait until it passes entirely, because let me tell you the smell does not help."

 

"When you think you're done," Bruce says, rubbing his back. Tony relaxes into the touch, leaning away from the toilet bowl and into the warm hands behind him for as long as the nausea allows. Bruce takes the opportunity to flush the toilet again.

 

"Ugh."

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"Don't apologize," Tony says immediately. "The side effects are hardly your fault."

 

"I could have tried to do something about them..."

 

"But then you'd have had less time to work on the whole," Tony waves a hand, "risk of death thing. Which I do appreciate, no matter how much I bitch. I'd rather be alive and puking than dead and... dead. Being dead sucks, I imagine."

 

"I'm sure," Bruce agrees solemnly. He hasn’t stopped rubbing. “All done?”

 

“I think so.” They sit there, on the tiled bathroom floor, for a little longer. Eventually Bruce gets to his feet, helping Tony up as well. “So. No pound cake today?”

 

“I’m afraid not.”

 

**8**

 

“So I think there’s someone important in town,” Bruce says casually. He rolls the rubber ball between his hands. Tony makes a curious noise, half asleep already; for the last day and a half he’s been curled up in bed while Bruce does… things. Whatever he does when Tony sleeps. Sometimes they toss a ball around. Tony suspects that maybe it’s some sort of sneaky doctor checkup or something. Testing his coordination, or whatever. He’s not sure, but he’s suspicious. Bruce is very subtle and clever.

 

“There’s a few more security guards around,” he explains. “Not too noticeable, unless you’re hiding from shady government organizations.”

 

“Like us.”

 

“Like us,” Bruce agrees. He tosses the ball gently. Tony lifts a hand and catches it. “I don’t think it’s SHIELD, though. Just someone important.”

 

“Like, royalty important? Politician important? Have you seen any suits wandering around with a posse?” Tony’s already losing interest. He remembers the ball and rolls it across the comforter for Bruce to pick up.

 

“Nobody has a posse,” the other man says. The ball rolls back, and Tony grabs it when it grazes his fingers. “They don’t want a big fuss made, I think. Nothing to worry about. Hey,” he snaps his fingers, startling Tony. He’s not sure when he’d closed his eyes.

 

“What’sit?” Tony mumbles.

 

“Have you considered, ah,” Bruce grimaces, unsure, “a more theoretical approach to your problem?”

 

“What,” Tony says to the ceiling, “does that even mean.”

 

“I was thinking about other elements you could use to power the reactor,” Bruce clarifies. “Iffier elements, like iridium. Or vibranium. Or anything else that’s hard to get ahold of.”

 

Tony lets the ball roll out of his hand. “First off, iridium? Big no-no. Second off, vibranium? That’s --”

 

“Hm?” Bruce prompts after a long silence. The ball gently taps Tony’s unmarked wrist.

 

“I’ll think about that,” Tony says, and rolls over to sleep.

 

**8**

 

“Vibranium,” Yinsen says. “Now there’s an idea. Not exactly something you’d find in a cave, I think.”

 

Tony sits up and glares at the man standing at the foot of the bed. He glances to the bathroom door on the west wall, cracked open so Bruce can hear if Tony needs help. Steam clouds paint the door with condensation. “Oh, now you feel like showing up. Where were you two and a half weeks ago?”

 

“What happened two and a half weeks ago?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says angrily, “I almost died? Coulda used your help there, buddy.”

 

“And what help would I have been?” Yinsen asks calmly. His glasses reflect light from a source that doesn’t exist.

 

Tony scowls. “Moral support? A warning? Something?”

 

“I am not here for moral support,” says Yinsen. “Sorry. You’ve got a new doctor for that.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“He’s a smart one, isn’t he?” he continues. “I’m glad you have someone to help you now. Goodness knows where you’d be if you hadn’t met him.”

 

Tony shrugs, shuffling around to the side of the bed. “Yeah, he --”

“I’m glad you have someone to help you when I cannot.”

 

Tony stills.

 

“He’s on the right track with vibranium, your doctor,” Yinsen muses. “I’m not sure how you’ll get ahold of that, but you have a knack for solving impossible problems. Don’t you?”

 

“Do I?” Tony asks quietly.

 

“I think so,” says Yinsen. “With help, of course, but then who can do everything alone?”

 

“Not me, apparently,” Tony answers. He’s not sure how he feels about that. “So, are you sticking around now? Is this a permanent thing? Are you going to be there for the next near-death experience? I should warn you, randomly popping in and out of existence isn’t good for my poor, shriveled heart.”

 

“Damaged,” Yinsen corrects, almost absently. “Still whole.” He takes off his glasses to clean some invisible smudge, and Tony’s gaze snaps down to the covers tangled in his fingers. Something -- he can’t look at Yinsen’s face, without the glasses.

 

“That’s debatable,” he says to his hands, looking back up only when Yinsen clears his throat a little. The reflective glasses are back on, hiding his eyes. Tony slumps, relieved and uncomfortable about it.

 

“Is it?” Yinsen asks mildly. “Only to you. Certainly not to Bruce.”

“Dammit, Yinsen,” Tony groans, “don’t bring Bruce into this.”

 

“Don’t bring who into what?”

 

And just like that, Yinsen is gone.

 

Bruce stands in the doorway to the bathroom, a towel around his waist and water dripping from his hair. He frowns, concerned. “Tony? Who were you talking to?”

 

The hotel room is completely empty, aside from Tony, sitting pale on the bed with the blankets kicked aside. His brow furrows.

 

"Who's Yinsen?"

 

**8**

The last thing Steve wants is to be a bother, but he just wants to touch. Logic tells him that holograms are just light, projecting an image, but his eyes say there's a tangible thing, a three-dimensional shape he can touch eight inches away. But nobody else is reacting this way to the map of India, so he can keep his paws to himself.

 

"No plane tickets under either name," Natasha's saying. "Face recognition didn't find anything in the passport files. They either stole cars or took the train. Or both." She pauses. "This is Tony Stark and a physicist, they probably did both."

 

"They did a number on Skittles," Clint mutters. Steve has never seen such a strong pout on anyone.

 

"SHIELD is fixing your car, Clint," Natasha responds, exasperated. She jabs at the map; the glowing surface fizzles around her finger as it goes through. (Steve wants to try.) "The Nagpur train station has lines that go nearly everywhere. If they're still within the country's borders, they're taking short routes." She waves a hand; the appropriate lines glow red. "If not, which is less likely since there haven't been any Hulk sightings, they're taking longer distance trips --" More lines glow brighter, this time in yellow. "-- and going in circles in an attempt to lose us."

 

"It worked," Clint points out. "We have no idea where they are."

 

"You'd better find them," says Fury's blue-tinted face. He, too, is a hologram, a glaring head with no body hovering above a little black box. "We can't afford to let the Hulk run around any longer, especially with such a dangerous ally."

 

"They could end up fighting each other," Coulson says, frowning. "A battle suit and a ten-foot monster could do a lot of damage."

 

Everyone takes a moment to wince at the idea.

 

"So what should we do?" Clint asks, making a face as Pepper claws her way over his kevlar-covered shoulder. She leaves little ginger hairs at every pawstep and he loves to complain about it.

 

"We wait them out," Steve offers. "If Stark is as abrasive as he was three years ago, and if Doctor Banner is as easily piqued as evidence suggests, there will be an incident."

 

"We can spread out in small search teams," Natasha says, tugging Pepper off of Clint's vest and into her lap. The little cat's tail twitches, but she stays where she is. "If something happens nearby, we can gather where we need to and defuse the situation much faster than if we're all in Delhi when we need to be in Mumbai."

 

Steve examines the glowing map carefully. Neon green dots above Nagpur, Kolkata, and Amravati indicate these cities as places where the two fugitives have been sighted. "This place," he indicates Amravati, "is close to their old place of residence," and Nagpur. "It's possible that they've been further along this train route. Would they risk using traveling this line for the sake of familiarity?"

 

Natasha hums, tucking a curly lock of scarlet behind her ear. "Maybe," she hums. "But they also could have gone in the opposite direction. If they did go that way, however, they'd have a straight shot to the coastline."

 

"Which gets them away from us faster," Clint says, sitting up from his sulky slouch to look closer at the map. "It's been two weeks, they're probably halfway across the ocean by now.”

 

“Doctor Banner’s dossier says that he avoids transportation over water,” Steve recalls from his readings on the flight to India. “So wouldn’t he avoid planes and boats?”

 

“That’s true,” Coulson agrees. Somehow, he scooted his chair over a foot from where he’d previously been seated next to Natasha without making a sound. Steve supposes that the man doesn’t like cats. At least he doesn’t kick up a fuss like Clint, he thinks with a private grin.

 

“So, Pakistan?” Natasha narrows her eyes at the map. “They would have already made it over the border there, too.”

 

“Why are we assuming they’ve left the country?” Steve asks, curious. “Maybe they’re waiting for us to leave so they can go back home.”

 

There’s a moment of silence.

 

“Then our search teams stop searching and start asking, ‘have you seen these men’,” Clint suggests brightly. “Steve can draw up mug shots.”

 

“Do what you have to,” Fury grumbles, looking extremely unhappy. “You four can pick the most likely route.” His face flickers out of existence.

 

“I’m not drawing mug shots,” Steve says flatly.

 

“We have photos of Banner,” Natasha sighs. “They’ll be traveling together.”

 

“So, which road do we pick?” Clint wonders, prodding at the map; it wavers and buzzes at every unnecessary touch and Coulson whacks his hand with a folded newspaper. Clint makes an indignant noise but stops poking.

 

“We can rule out all the southern states,” says Natasha, highlighting large masses of land in the peninsula and a few along the northern borders. Pepper copies her movements with wide eyes, batting at the map curiously. Steve finds it terribly adorable and is distracted from the serious conversation for a few moments while he watches. “Save the ones around Pakistan, because that’s probably how Stark got to India to begin with. Coulson, will you --”

 

“I’ll organize a few three-man teams to Pakistan to ask around,” Coulson promises. “Go ahead and pick the route. I’ll speak to the other agents.” With that, he gets up from his chair and exits the trailer.

 

“How many official languages are there in India?” Clint asks.

 

“Twenty-three,” Natasha answers promptly. “Stark was speaking Standard Marathi.”

 

Steve sees where this is going. “And which states have Marathi listed as their official language?”

 

She types something into a tablet she pulled out of nowhere. Five states light up entirely in blue, and five others are scattered with blue dots. “It’s safe to assume they’ve traveled to one or more of these, if this is the language he’s been using.”

 

“Any we want to rule out?”

 

Eventually, they’re down to just a handful of cities.

 

"So, not Indore?" Steve pokes at the hologram, manfully thrilled at the opportunity. The whole state of Madhya Pradesh dims.

 

"There's a Wakandan emissary visiting," Natasha says. "Too much extra security for them to risk if they want to keep moving undetected."

 

“Delhi,” Clint repeats firmly. “There’s a Stane Industries building there.”

 

“Which he’s been trying to avoid,” Steve points out. Pepper has long since migrated to his lap, and he’s stroking her fur to both keep her happy and himself level-headed. They've already been through this. “If he wanted to target SI, don’t you think he would have done it already?”

 

“But he’s been found out,” Clint says. “That changes things for a guy. Maybe he wants to get things done before he’s taken in.”

 

“Clint has a point,” Natasha concedes. “With the Hulk at his side, they could cause a lot of damage.”

 

“It doesn’t take two weeks to get to Delhi,” says Steve.

 

“It doesn’t take two weeks to get anywhere in India.” Clint rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t take two weeks to get anywhere in the world. So why are they still here?”

 

"I, for one, think it's a good idea to start at Delhi." And Coulson's back, sticking his head through the trailer door. "I'll tell the agents to start at the other places you've listed. Send me the list?" This last bit he directs at Natasha, who nods in agreement. "Great. Put the cat away. Let's go get some food at the place down the street."

 

"Sweet!" Clint crows, triumphant and clearly relieved to be done with the conversation. He hops to his feet, kicking his chair back under the table, and follows Coulson out the door. Steve places Pepper at the top of the cat tree SHIELD got ahold of as Natasha shuts down the equipment behind him.

 

"Ready?" she asks, joining him as he exits their temporary home. Steve shrugs.

 

"Not quite," he admits, locking the door behind them. He tucks the key into a pocket and sighs. "Talk about a whirlwind adventure. Things are moving so fast they're kicking dust into my face."

 

Natasha smiles. "That's SHIELD for you, Captain," she says. "We don't have any leads, no place to start. Iron Man has been mysteriously appearing in war zones for over two years now, and the Hulk appears whenever Doctor Banner loses control. Our life is snap decisions, quick thinking and a good guess with our lives on the line." Her smile fades a little. "If there's a connection between Stark and Delhi, then to Delhi we go. If we're wrong, we can go poke around Indore."

 

Steve heaves another sigh, scuffing dirt under his sneakers. "I don't like not having a plan," he says, helplessly frustrated. "We're blind."

 

"We're watching," Natasha amends, "and waiting. The second something out of the ordinary happens, we'll be there. It may seem like we're indecisive or unwilling, but really. What's war, in the end? Ten percent horror and ninety percent waiting for something to happen." She waits for his nod of understanding. "It's the same thing now. Neither Stark nor Banner will come easily. It's going to be messy, and we all know it. Right now they've got the upper hand since we haven't located them yet. But when we do?

 

"It's important to remember that our seemingly random searches will eventually bring up something. It's helpful just to know that they're not in Nagpur. It will be helpful to know if they're not in Delhi, or if they crossed the Pakistan border a week ago. All our decisions are made with a goal in mind: find them. If we can, flush them out. Then we've got the resources to take them down. But it takes time. Time and careful guesswork."  

 

She's right, and Steve knows it. It doesn't ease his mind completely, but her words do a lot to help. "I understand," he says aloud. "Thanks."

 

She nods, satisfied. "Great," she replies. "Let's go catch up with Barton and Coulson before they order without us."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it! The Video Chapter. For you lovely new people, the Video Chapter is basically the chapter you want to leave a review/comment on. Though I'm currently in a state of tech lockdown, I still have this little old iPod Touch to post with and, if I'm super lucky, my parents will be out so I can make off with my computer long enough to make the video. If I'm not lucky, well, you won't get to see me straight out of my beauty sleep (which you don't want to see anyways. My bedhead is atrocious). Instead I'll take a quick snapshot of my ugly mug and sneak off to a friend's house to use HIS laptop. It'll be great. 
> 
> Since trying to form a verbal response to all your love and affection would quite honestly kill me, this video will be to answer your questions!! And so you can see my dumb face contort into exciting and unusual expressions. But mostly for the questions! Or rather, the answers I'll give you. Ask anything you want, hopefully pertaining to rustfic and/or its sequels, but I guess I'll answer some personal questions, too. To an extent, anyways. Also, you may want to specify whether or not you want spoilers, so. And if other people have questions and they want spoilers, I'mma hold up a sign that says SPOILERS in giant, probably purple letters for you non-spoilery types until I'm done answering the question. I'll explain better at the start of the video. So! Yeah. Comments/reviews with all the questions questions you can think of for me. Pretty please? Also, if you don't have questions, I'd really appreciate your thoughts on the chapter. Not posting for a long time makes me nervous. I think you all saw my breakdown a couple chapters ago that proves this fact.
> 
> Anyways, so the video will be great! I'l fumble awkwardly over usernames and go off on long tangents and swear endlessly (I have a bad mouth) and answer your questions to the best of my ability on a completely unedited video! It will probably be long. Brace yourselves, friends. I'll make the video next Sunday.
> 
> EDIT: I'm a dirty liar. Went to The Lion King on Sunday, so now I'mma do the video on the 4th (Tuesday). If you have any questions, please ask!


	19. sprinting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> un-beta'd because i have zero self-restraint, so all mistakes are mine. don't worry, i'll have them fixed eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse my angsty bullshit. My request simply wasn't feasible, and was rather heavy-handed. Um. I feel terribly guilty about it, now that I've gotten some people pointing out why I was less than awesome about the whole thing. So, I'm really sorry.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter. Sorry it's unbeta'd.

3 weeks  
Natasha walks in wearing a stylish women's suit with her hair neatly curled over her shoulders. Steve eyes the sharp, smooth lines of her clothes, the delicate three-inch heels, and reaches for his sketchbook. 

"Can you --?" he starts, already streaking fluid lines of graphite down the paper. She smiles and holds still while he works. He hums his thanks. 

After a few minutes of pencil-scritching silence he lets her go, focusing his full attention on the paper as he draws in the smaller details: the wrinkle at her right elbow, the small crease at the corner of her eye, the severe line of her skirt cut off at the knee. 

"Very nice," she comments from behind him; he manages to stay in his seat but grips the pencil a little too tight in his surprise, dropping it when the wood starts to creak. The tip snaps on the tile floor and he sighs. 

"Sorry," she says, moving to drop into the seat across from him. Steve shrugs. 

"It's fine." He waves off the apology with one hand, leaning over and picking the pencil up with the other. He inspects the broken tip. "At least this one didn't break completely. I've got a sharpener." 

She smiles. "You're a good artist, Steve." 

"Ah." He can feel the blush rising, part embarrassment and part awkward pride. "Thank you. But uh, there's always room for improvement." 

"You certainly improved my makeup," she jokes, and he laughs. 

"You're dressed very nicely today," he notes, scooping up the sharpener and twisting the graphite into the razor. It's harder to sharpen than lead, but he's getting used to it. "More undercover work?"

Natasha groans, toeing off her heels. "In a manner of speaking," she replies. "My interview with Stane is in ten minutes." She scowls. "I can feel his lecherous stare already. It's disgusting." 

Steve frowns. "You're going to interview with him knowing he's going to harass you?" 

Natasha shrugs, flicking a scarlet curl over her shoulder. "It can't be helped," she answers. "If anything they chose me so he'd be looking too hard at my legs to pay attention to potential holes in my background check. I don't mind, Steve," she adds as his scowl deepens, "it's my job. Femme fatale and all that, right?" She laughs. "That's what Clint likes to say, anyways. Idiot." 

"You're much more than your looks," Steve says seriously. He sets aside his newly sharpened pencil and sharpener. 

Her smile widens as she stands and stretches. "I sure hope so," she agrees, snatching up her heels by the thin straps. "Thanks, Steve," she says, and disappears behind the door across the room. 

**8**

Five weeks  
"Why aren't we moving?" Clint complains for the third time from his spot in the back seat. He pushes Steve's shoulder. "Move, you lug. I can't see." 

Steve physically can't move anywhere, crammed into the tight space in the passenger's seat with a fussy cat on his lap. "Move to the middle, I can't go anywhere," he repeats for the third time. He's about ready to get out and do something about this ridiculous situation, but Coulson says moving them is a cultural faux pas. 

"I refuse to believe cows are standing between us and potential terrorist fugitives," Clint says staunchly, very obviously pouting. 

"You can't force the cows to move," Coulson says from the driver's seat. His face keeps twitching, like he wants to glower or maybe shout some but his training won't let him. "They're revered in this country. Many people don't eat beef, they don't kill cattle, they don't touch them unless they own them, and they certainly don't run over a herd of them standing in the the road." 

Steve watches Clint's face pale in the rearview mirror. "If they don't eat beef, then what was my steak dinner?"

Coulson shrugs. "Potentially horse. Maybe something else."

"Something else?" Clint demands, voice going shrill. 

"Look, they're moving," Steve says hastily, an obvious and clumsy distraction that somehow works. Sure enough, the loitering cattle moo and gather together, moving off the dirt road up the hill to the right. Pepper perks up and watches through the window. Twenty minutes later, Coulson restarts the engine, earning a displeased rumble from the cat as her nose bumps against the window. Steve strokes her fur. 

"Maybe we should call Natasha back," he jokes. "You're a little high-strung." 

"Shut up," grumbles Clint. 

"Even if we could, we wouldn't," Coulson says pleasantly. "Agent Romanov's task at Stane Industries is far more important than one agent's childish antics. One would think he could manage." 

"Hey," Clint complains. "I am a mature, successful adult with excellent boredom management skills." 

Steve almost doubts that. "Want to play I Spy?" he asks. He can feel Clint perk up behind him. 

"You bet," he says with a bit too much enthusiasm for a mature, successful adult with excellent boredom management skills. "I'm called Hawkeye for a reason. My eyes will own yours, super soldiery or not." 

He takes a moment to ponder the idea of someone's eyes owning another's before giving up and allowing the agent next to him to start the game. 

**8** 

Six weeks  
The four of them (plus one cat) stand around the holographic map. Slash marks litter the screen, highlighting areas where agents have confirmed the absence of Stark and Banner. Clint inputs logs of their own travels, marking a dozen other locations he, Steve, and Coulson have scoured. Other shapes indicate high levels of government activity, Stane Industries activity, and sightings of the two fugitives. The agents at the shipyards, airports, and borders have also come up with nothing; clearly they haven't left the country, but they're also invisible to SHIELD at the moment. It's incredibly frustrating. 

"This is depressing." Natasha's blue-tinted face speaks. Pepper turns around and bats at her, ears laid flat against her head when her paw goes through the image instead of smacking the agent in the face. Natasha ignores it. "Let's talk about something else." 

"Let's," Steve agrees with no small amount of relief. "How's SI?"

"Terrible," she says immediately. "This is what I've found so far."

The map disappears, replaced by file after file popping up and disappearing too quickly to read. Every few pages there's a color photo of some weapon or other, clearly labeled with either the Stark Industries logo or the new Stane Industries one. Pepper's attention jerks back to the flashing screen.

"Logs of trades and sales transactions between Stane himself and both known and unknown terrorist cells," Natasha reports. "Dozens of accounts of embezzling from the company and suspicious loss of parts and products dating back more than ten years. Three and a half years ago, there was a spike in weapons dealing with a group known as the Ten Rings."

"Stark went missing three and a half years ago," Clint points out. He's staring hard at the open files as they slow to a stop, ending with a blueprint of a dangerous looking set of missiles on a wheeled stand.The word "Jericho" is printed in blocky letters at the bottom right hand of the page. "A few months after that, a Ten Rings base of operations blew up and they went underground." 

"Then Iron Man started attacking other terrorist cells," Steve puts in. "But he left some alone, even though they were on his direct flight path." 

"I'm guessing those cells didn't have any Stark -- or Stane weaponry," Coulson says. His brow furrows. "Fury needs to know about this." 

"So, what?" Clint says, brushing aside the blueprints to look over receipts and emails. "He's only blowing up his own tech. Why?" 

The thought takes Steve to a dark place in his head, memories of dank dungeons and bodies laid out on tables and Bucky -- "If you were held captive in a cave with your own weaponry used against you, what would you do?" 

"Locate the leak, plug it, and clean up the mess," Clint says, and Steve can see when he catches on. "But does Stark know it's Stane doing the leaking?" 

"Probably not." Natasha's holographic head shakes. "Sources say Stane was a sort of father figure to him, especially after Howard Stark's death." 

Especially? Steve's lips press together. Now is not the time to ask questions about his old comrade. Everything he's heard and read implies enough to make him not want to bother, anyways. 

Clint scoffs. "That scumbag," he growls. Pepper hisses her agreement; not for the first time, Steve finds himself wondering how much of the conversation she can understand.

"But why did Stark choose to attack this way, instead of going back to SI and stopping the whole thing at the source?" he asks. "He has to know this whole thing is pointless." 

"Scare tactic?" Natasha suggests. "If the terrorists are killed when they deal with Stane, maybe he's hoping they'll stop." 

"Or he decided it wasn't worth the risk to his company," Coulson says. "Careless playboy or not, Stark has a heart. Closing weapons manufacturing would likely have destroyed SI, leaving thousands of people across the US jobless." 

Steve files this away for later. In the meantime, "Stark seems to make sure to go the unconventional, if not inefficient, route. With this in mind, where would a man like him go to stay hidden?" 

A moment of silence as they all stare at the map. 

"Shit," Clint curses. "Indore." 

**8**

Seven weeks  
"I give," Steve says wearily. He props the shield up with the hotel night stand and sits on the bed next to the snoozing cat. "Walking around trying to find him isn't working."

"I was wondering," says Clint, facedown on the bed next to Steve's, "how Stark powers that armor. You'd need the world's largest battery to keep it running, but clearly it doesn't have one of those."

"Nothing we know of is capable," Coulson sighs, loosening his tie. He sits next to Clint. "Aside from maybe the Stane Industries arc reactor, but it's far too large and even it wouldn't be able to keep the armor running as long as Stark has." 

"Could you make a smaller one?" Clint asks, turning his head. Coulson frowns thoughtfully.

"If anyone could, it's Stark," he replies, "but I don't see how it's possible with the resources he's had." 

"Were you thinking it was possible to build a functioning suit of armor, with weaponry, in a car shop?" Steve asks wryly. He struggles with the buckles of his boots. Pepper's paw twitches as he jars the bed. "Because the twenty-first century is amazing, but not that amazing." 

"Stark tech has always been amazing," Clint counters, "except now. Stane Industries isn't making anything new and revolutionary these days." 

"It's not Stark tech anymore," Coulson points out, "in more ways than one." 

"D'you think Stane knew," Clint says slowly, "about Stark's kidnapping?"

"Not likely," Steve says dismissively. He flexes his toes, free from those awful new shoes and drapes himself over the comforter, curving his body around the unmoving bundle of ginger fur. Her chilly nose pushes into his bare arm. "It's obvious the company needs Stark to keep going. Stane has to have realized that. He'd have done his best to keep Stark where he was at, if only to prevent what's happening to SI now." 

"Sending him off to a warzone was a stupid idea," Clint agrees. "Now SI's tanking, Stark's turned into a borderline terrorist, and we can't find him." 

"He's not doing much in the way of terrorism, though," argues Steve. 

"It's considered terrorism to blow up Stane tech on US military land," Coulson says dryly. "Sorry, Captain." 

"But it's for a good reason," Steve protests, sitting up and upsetting the cat. "Supposedly." Pepper slinks up the bed and steals his pillow, huffing discontentedly. 

"Supposedly," Coulson repeats. "We can't be sure. Either way he knew his actions would turn America against him."

"You'd think so," Clint snorts, muffled by the pillow. "Personally I don't think he thought it through very well."

"What makes you say that?" 

"Dude." Clint waves a hand. "What idiot wears a car and fights terrorists expecting to come out in one piece? There's no way he's come out of that unscathed, and as smart as the IQ test says he is, evidence shows he's got a relatively one-track mind." 

"How so?" Steve inquires, curious. 

"To be blunt," Clint explains, "his life used to consist of inventing, drinking, and sleeping with everyone. Not the sign of a guy who's got a good life plan set for himself."

Steve frowns at this. "But wouldn't he take the government into consideration?"

Coulson makes a humming noise. "Barton has a point, though. Stark never set many goals for himself." 

"Damn right I have a point," says Clint. He pulls his head off the pillow and gives Steve a look. "Look, Stark used to say he was a futurist. But what he's doing now? Is sheer stupidity. We know it, they know it, he sure as shit knows it too. You don't walk into this kind of situation and believe you're coming out alive." He shakes his head. "Whatever his reasoning, he clearly thinks he's got nothing to lose." 

**8**

Nine weeks  
"Maybe we're looking in the wrong place." 

"What makes you think that?" Coulson asks, brow furrowed. The three men and a live video feed from Natasha surround the map of Indore. "He can't still be able to afford a higher priced hotel on a mechanic's pay check." 

"No," Natasha interjects, "Steve's right. I think we should look into that Wakandan visitor."

"He's still here," Steve says, "three weeks longer than we expected. Why?"

"You think --" Clint checks the visitor's file, "-- the prince, holy shit, the crown prince to the Wakandan throne is staying here to talk to a pair of fugitives."

"SHIELD's research and science divisions helped me look into the arc reactor technology," says Steve. He plugs the flash drive full of data into the holosystem's port. Pages of glowing blue mathematics and notes flicker to life for the other three to see. "The arc reactor powering SI produces more energy than four nuclear power plants. The power source is a forty-foot wire made of palladium." He pauses, flicks through the files until he can pull up an aerial shot of Wakanda. "Wakanda doesn't share their materials. But they mine endless amounts of what SHIELD assumes is vibranium, which they say my shield is made of. They also have a history with palladium. Now, if Stark could make friends with the prince of Wakanda, what resources could he stand to gain?" 

"We have reason to believe he only stole weaponry that contained palladium," Coulson says thoughtfully. "So you think he did build an arc reactor?"

Steve shrugs. "It's the only theory that makes sense."

"But if he had a suit," Clint said, brows furrowed, "he would've used it already. Right? So he wouldn't need an arc reactor." 

"But then why would he need palladium now?"

"I have a theory," Steve says grimly, "and I'm not sure how plausible it is, but I feel like I should show you anyways." He brings up a picture of the company arc reactor. "Here's what the SI reactor looks like: giant, circular, and glowing blue. Now, take a look at this."

He brings up a second picture, a screenshot saved from the security cameras at the auto shop. Strangely, out of the files he had to work with, the videos from the day Stark and Banner were discovered had disappeared. Instead, he'd looked through past recordings and found what he's showing now: a shot of Stark stretching, shirt pulled tight against his chest. SHIELD computers sharpened the image for him, bringing attention to the strange flat spot in the center of his chest and the faint blue glow shining through the fabric.

Steve watches their expressions shift as they make the connection. "What does this look like to you?"

**8**

Ten weeks  
"So, the prince left," Clint says, staring down at the screen of his phone from his perch on top of the couch. "Some sort of emergency, looks like."

Steve groans, laid out on his back next to the couch with six pounds of snoozing cat on his stomach. "So much for that theory." 

"Do we have eyes on that plane?" Coulson asks, sticking his head into the fridge. Next to Steve, Clint shrugs. 

"Reports say there's no one out of the ordinary aboard."

"Damn." 

"On the bright side, people are saying they've seen both Banner and Stark together in Indore." 

"But we already looked there," Steve protests, gingerly sitting upright. Pepper's head comes up, claws digging into his chest to keep herself balanced. Steve scowls and carefully detaches her claws. 

"Check it out." Clint offers his phone. Steve takes it with his free hand and scrolls through the photos of two men -- definitely Stark and Banner -- wandering an alleyway at night. Stark's a little pale and hunched over, wearing a faded purple button-up over a black shirt and dirty jeans. Banner's wearing a different button-up, slacks, and a pinched expression. Pepper peers over his arm to see what the fuss is about. Her ears twitch and she makes the most pitiful mewling noise Steve has ever heard. Her nose leaves little wet spots as she nudges at the photo of Stark. He tries to pet her to calm her down but it only half works. She mews more insistently and rubs her cheek on the screen. 

"Well, now we know for sure it's them," Clint remarks, watching the cat with troubled eyes. "That's downright depressing to watch. Gimme the phone back before she starts crying." 

Steve obliges. "Banner's looking a little stressed," he observes. "Stark, too."

"Something they ate?" Barton suggests. Pepper goes from sulking over the loss of the phone to flicking Steve in the face with her tail and leaping off his shoulder onto the makeshift cat tree behind them. 

"Great," Coulson groans from the kitchen counter. He sets a bag of grapes down and reaches for his cell phone. "Now's the time to have the army's Hulkbuster tech ready." 

Eleven weeks  
"What do you mean, you have to leave?" Steve asks, aghast. "We've been at this for nearly three months!"

Coulson sighs, pausing in his packing to look at him. "That's part of the problem, I think," he says ruefully. "But no matter what the reason is, Director Fury chose Clint and I to check out the anomaly in New Mexico." 

"Yeah." Clint pops his head through the doorway leading to his room of the trailer. "If by 'anomaly' you mean 'giant magic-looking hammer nobody can pick up' along with 'crazy buff guy claiming to be Thor, the mythical god who happens to wield a giant magic hammer nobody can pick up'. Sure. Anomaly's the right word." He drops Pepper outside his door. "Now someone take the cat before she turns all my black shirts orange." 

Steve isn't sure he wants to ask, instead scooping her up and placing her on a branch of her cat tree. She just sniffs and jumps to the top. She hates him now and he misses her more than he thought. "How long do you think you'll be... dealing with that?"

"A week or so," Coulson assures him. "Fury will send us straight back here after."

"You can handle it." Clint comes over to clap Steve on the shoulder and steal a bag of chips from the table. "Nothing's really been happening, y'know? I doubt that'll change now."

"Oh, sure," Steve agrees, dry as dust. "You better find some wood to knock on, Barton."

"Oh, please," the man scoffs. "I'm a SHIELD agent, I don't believe in superstition." 

"Yes, you do," Coulson says, and snatches the bag from Clint's hands. "Back to work, agent. Our car's coming in an hour." 

Twelve weeks  
He's hit the three-month mark and still there's nothing. Steve wonders if this is how Fury imagined his first mission would go: no evidence, no fugitives, and one extra cat. At least Coulson called to tell him he and Barton will be coming back in a few days. 

He feels useless. And he doesn't much like feeling that way. There's only so many times he can sketch the same angry cat before it gets ridiculous. 

"Any news?" he asks the camera. On his tablet screen, Natasha shrugs. 

"I need to get close to Stane's computer," she answers, scowling. "It's hard to get anything when half of the information you need is on a hard drive four floors up."

"And you think he's got what you're looking for?"

"I think he's got everything on that computer," Natasha affirms. "Everything. I just need to figure out how to get there."

**8**

"Heyo!" Clint bursts into the trailer. "What's up, Steve?"

"Uh," Steve says, startled out of his chair, "I'm fine, thanks."

"Close enough." Clint kicks his shoes off and marches back to his room, yawning. "God, that was a disaster." 

"It was," Coulson agrees, placing his shoes next to Barton's with a duffle bag over one shoulder. "At least it's over."

"What happened? Oh, watch Pepper. She's been trying to escape lately." Steve takes the bag from Coulson, who smiles his thanks while toeing the ninja cat away from the door, and takes it to the agent's room. 

"We'll discuss it when I don't get a headache just thinking about it."

"Put it like this." Clint reappears with a banana in hand -- Steve wonders when he got it, since the bananas are on the counter. "Crazy buff guy with the magic hammer is actually Thor, god of thunder with the magic hammer. Thor's crazy brother tried to kill him with a giant magic robot, so all of Thor's crazy friends came to help him wreck it. Then he magicked himself back to where he came with his friends and the dead robot. Also, he got a girlfriend." 

Steve grimaces. "Maybe I shouldn't have asked." 

"Imagine trying to deal with it," Coulson says, manfully ignoring Pepper's claws and orange fur all over his legs. She's giving him the stink-eye now, but it's clearly not working.

"Well, at least now we can get back to nap time," Clint says cheerfully, dropping himself into Steve's vacated seat. "I bet you didn't find anything with Stark and Banner, huh?" 

"I didn't," Steve answers truthfully. "Natasha thinks she has a lead in SI, though." 

"Does she?" Coulson asks, interested. "What -- hang on." He frowns, digging around in his many pockets for his phone. He makes a tiny sound of triumph and pulls it out. Steve watches him pale. 

"Well," Coulson says, frowning at the screen, "looks like nap time will have to wait."

"Are you kidding?" Clint takes a vicious bite of his banana. "Why?"

Coulson turns his screen around to show a video of a massive green monster bursting out of a building. The tinny roar echoes in Steve's ears. "The Hulk's finally made his appearance." 

Pepper cocks her head and meows.


	20. not as planned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me start this off by apologizing. 
> 
> To anyone who remembers my less-than-stellar attitude in the notes of last chapter, I am so, so sorry. I could give you a list of excuses, but you don't deserve any more of my bullshit so I'll stop it now. I also want to thank you -- each and every one of you -- who took the time to tell me exactly what you thought about everything: the attitude I pulled, the shit I said, the fic itself.... I appreciate the love and take your firm words at as you meant them. //headdesk// God, I was being stupid. 
> 
> Now, you all deserve another apology for the wait. I literally -- I just -- ugh. This was way harder than I thought it could possibly be. It was, without a doubt, the hardest chapter to write. There's so much emotional turmoil I had a few moments where I had to stop and walk away for a length of time. I hope it means as much to you as it did to me when I wrote it. On the bright side, I literally have the final chapter written in my head. I was only holding off because I wasn't sure how much would vary from my original plan this chapter (which, it did, so thank fuck I didn't do the thing). 
> 
> Finally, SO MUCH LOVE for my new beta, vital_root (my other beta vanished into thin air and I guess my emails aren't going through). Thanks, Biscuit bb! Also, Bro C owned a solid third of this chapter. Give her some love too please. They were both so kind and patient while I flailed and struggled. Go them!
> 
> Now.... I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter. Only one to go!

_Three weeks_

"Tony," Bruce says, "Should I be concerned?"

 

Tony shrugs, playing with a few loose threads on the blanket he's using. "Maybe." His mouth feels strange; he leans over to grab the cup of water off the nightstand and takes a sip.

 

Now Bruce sounds really troubled. "Tony," he repeats, "Are you alright?"

 

Tony waves the hand not holding a cup, refusing to look up. "Sure."

 

"One word answers aren't going to convince me," says his friend, "Especially not ones in English."

 

Ah. So that's why he felt off. How long has he been doing that, he wonders. The very idea makes him nervous, almost fearful. "Huh," is what comes out of his mouth. When was the last time he spoke English? Have many of his conversations with Yinsen been in this language? He'd just assumed that, since the few times he actually noticed what they were saying it was in a different language, that he hadn't spoken English for years. He hadn't realized… Discomfited, Tony takes another sip of water.

 

"Is that what you're doing now?" Bruce asks in a teasing sort of voice, moving over to his side of the room and changing into night clothes. Tony keeps his eyes on the blanket. "Gossiping in English to the empty room when I'm not around?"

 

It's a way out of the conversation, at least for now, and Tony takes it. "Yes, absolutely," he says in carefully spoken Spanish. "I do it all the time. The things this room says about you? Wow, Green Bean."

 

"Uh huh," Bruce says, unimpressed. He sits on Tony's bed and steals the cup to drink from. "I take it all these rooms have names, then?"

 

Shit, shit, shit, it wasn't a way out, it was a trap. A dirty trap. "No," Tony says, frantically trying to come up with something. "They all have the same name. Because they're like Nurse Joy in Pokemon. They're all the same," he adds weakly. Oh god. No. Can he take that back?

 

"I see. So they're all named--" Stay calm, Tony thinks. It's cool. Don't react. "--Yinsen?"

 

He mostly restrains the wince/flinch/head jerk thing, but it still happens. He doesn't answer.

 

"Tony?"

 

"Yeah?" he manages, counting the number of threads bunched up over his lap.

 

Bruce hesitates, setting the glass back on the night stand. "Are you alright?" he asks for the third time that night, quieter than before. Tony shrugs.

 

"Same as always," he answers, and that's that.

 

"Alright," says Bruce, shuffling over to the chair to retrieve his pants. "You just--ah, we don't talk much, about things like things. But that could change. Right?"

 

"Yeah," Tony mutters, uncomfortable. He's got no plans to let that happen.

 

_Four weeks_

"I've done this before," Tony says without thinking, watching as Bruce cleans the crook of his elbow. The alcohol always stings his skin, just a little, like rinsing with too-minty Listerine mouthwash. God, he hasn't had that in a while, and he's not sure whether he misses the taste or not. Of Listerine, not alcohol, though he hasn’t had much of that in years either. 

 

The cotton swab in Bruce's fingers pauses. "Done what?"

 

"This." Tony gestures with his free hand. "The whole doctor-needle thing. With, um. Another doctor."

 

"Who?" Bruce inquires absently, now fiddling with the syringe.

 

"Yinsen," says Tony, staring straight ahead.

 

He almost expected a reaction, but no. This is Bruce, and he simply slides the needle into his arm, concentration fully on his work. "Uh huh," he replies. "And you spoke English with him? I'm jealous."

 

"Don't be. He wasn't nearly as cute as you."

 

Bruce glances up and shakes his head. "The fact that you can tell a grown man that he's cute with a completely straight face unnerves me."

 

"I try," Tony says cheerfully.

  
  


_Five weeks_

"Bruce. Bruce! Sweet pea! Beanie Bear! Pickle, darling, answer me," Tony pleads, rolling over in their shared bed--they've been having a hard time funding larger hotels lately, what with the dwindling number of places that are inexpensive enough and don't ask questions about payment in cash. "Please?"

 

Bruce resolutely ignores him, back to Tony as he breathes deeply and Tony knows that he's not sleeping.

 

He resorts to gentle prods in the spine, bored out of his mind. "Bruce…”

 

"What's your first spoken language?" Bruce asks abruptly. Tony pauses mid-poke.

 

"Why?" he asks, uneasy. Has he done something wrong?

 

"You lied to me," Bruce says simply. "I knew you could understand English, it's obvious. But pretending you couldn't speak the language yourself?" He sighs. "I felt like an idiot. I haven't done anything about it because I don't know what to do, except ask that you please stop the charade and speak English."

 

"I'm not comfortable with that," Tony replies honestly. Difficult as it is, f Bruce is going to talk about his feelings for once, then so will he.  "I haven't spoken it in years--at least, not in conversation like this," he amends, thinking back to two weeks ago. The last time he saw Yinsen.

 

Bruce rolls over to face him, brow furrowed. "Why?"

 

Tony looks away, uncomfortable. "After everything that happened, I ran away. Left that life behind." 

 

"Alright, Tony," is the quiet reply. "Is that why you didn’t tell me?"

 

"I guess." 

 

"I understand. Hey…"

 

Tony glances up. "What?"

 

Bruce has a thoughtful frown on his face. He hitches the blanket higher over his shoulders. "Have you thought about using vibranium? For the reactor?"

 

Tony shrugs. "I haven’t been thinking about much lately." 

 

His frown deepens. "Is the dosage not doing its job? I can--"

 

"No no," Tony hurries to assure him, "It's not that. I'm tired, is all."

 

Bruce sighs. "It may be a side-effect of the treatment," he allows, "Though I don't like it." 

 

Truthfully, neither does Tony. Nowadays he's content to stare at the ceiling and doze, mind a haze of half-formed thoughts and emotion as he waits for the dose of whatever Bruce got ahold of to work. Even days afterwards he doesn't much feel like moving. It'd be terrifying if he could feel more than an undercurrent of fear of losing himself. 

 

Losing himself. Losing the genius, the sharp analytical edge that put him steps above the rest of the world. Losing what made him who he was back then, what resulted in his--in meeting Yinsen, what got him his job, his home, his friend in the car shop. Losing what gave him his armor, what made him Iron Man, what allowed him to go out and do what needed to be done.

 

In some small, pitiful way, he's grateful for the relief. He doesn't constantly analyze everything he sets his eyes on. He's not seeing Afghanistan in everything. He can't get friends taken by SHIELD, maybe permanently (and shouldn't he be more than a little worried about Sarvankar?). He can't build more armor, can't go out and fight thieves and murderers. He can't work up enough energy to ask the important questions, the ones he's been neglecting since day one: how did they know where Tony would be that day in Afghanistan? Who sold Stark (Stane, or so he hears, and more power to him) weapons under the table? Who's still doing it? Why do only some terrorist cells have them? 

 

He can shut down his mind. He can close his eyes and sleep. 

 

"I'll worry about it when it passes," he says finally. "I'm not a fan of it, but at least I'm getting sleep."

 

"Right," Bruce agrees softly. "We'll talk in the morning." 

  
  


_Six weeks_

Bruce is up to something. 

 

Ever since he read that newspaper a few days ago, he's been acting vaguely suspicious. Tony can't find it in him to care much, but the thought is there. To his near surprise, he's almost curious about it. Before the arc reactor, he may have gone out of his way to find out just what Bruce is doing. Hell, before the treatments started he might have inquired further. Today, though, as he rests his sweaty forehead on the rim of the toilet bowl, the acrid stench of vomit in the air, he can only decide to watch and wait. 

 

Wait for what? For Bruce to tell him what he saw in the newspaper? For him to say, hey Tony, our mug shots are scattered across town? For him to go, SHIELD has us surrounded? For him to promise Tony he found a cure? For him to pack up his bags and get out while he still has a chance? 

 

At this point in time, Bruce might say something about how he couldn't possibly leave now, don't be ridiculous Tony. Until he hears the truth, though…

 

His stomach lurches and he leans forward, dry heaving. Now's not really the time to think about it, he supposes. 

  
  


_Seven weeks_

He’s been gone for nine hours now.

Now, Tony isn’t the jealous girlfriend type. When Bruce goes out, Tony generally doesn’t ask what he’s been up to. Of course, lately he’s been acting a little odd and maybe Tony’s been worrying a little, but he’s not going to do anything about it.

 

Unless he’s gone for nine hours.

 

He can literally feel the stress rising up in him, closing in around his throat and throttling him. He stares up at the scarred ceiling blankly.

 

Bruce always comes back.

 

If he works past the worry--the most he’s felt in a long time, and it couldn’t be a nice thing?--the pain makes itself present. If he was more paranoid, he might say it’s worse than it was at this point on his last dose. As it is, all he’s willing to admit is that he aches; a deep, full-body pain fluctuating between bearable and nauseating. It almost feels like the initial side-effects of the medication, only they’re supposed to fade after a couple of days.  

 

He heaves a sigh through  the mounting pressure. He’d be more frustrated at his inability to do something if he could, y’know, move.

 

**8**

 

He’s dozing when Bruce comes home. The motel is cheap, so the door squeaks loudly as it opens and closes, jerking Tony out of his restless nap. He blinks up at the stained and water-damaged ceiling, breathing evenly.

 

"I brought food," Bruce eventually volunteers. There’s the rustling of a plastic bag and Tony can smell curry.

 

"Thanks," he says tiredly.

 

Another silence.

 

"Why were you gone so long?"

 

Bruce sighs, turning to the counter to set down the bag and load up two paper plates. "I ah, met somebody at the library."

 

Tony snorts. "The library? Why were you there?"

 

"Fork or spoon?"

 

"Both. Don’t avoid the question."

 

He picks out two plastic spoons and a fork and walks over to the bed, offering one plate to Tony, who sits up to take it. "I went looking for books for you to read."

 

Tony can’t read the local language as well as he can write it, and they both know it. He’s lying. "You couldn’t get enough books to keep me happy for a day if you had a truck to carry them in," he half jokes. Bruce just shrugs.

 

"It was worth a shot."

 

_Liar_.

 

They eat quietly, avoiding each other’s eyes. It’s awkward, to say the least. Normally around this point Tony’s poking fun at his friend and Bruce is laughing at whatever idiotic thing came out of his mouth. It’s not tense like tonight. When they’re both done eating, Bruce takes their plates and tosses them in the small trash can by the counter.

 

"What else did you do?" Tony asks finally, tugging the pillow back over his lap. Bruce sits next to him, thin mattress sinking under his weight.

 

"I was looking for ways to help you," he admits. He stares down at his hands, folded in his lap. "You said you’d think on vibranium as a possibility, so I went to… find ways to get some."

 

"It’s literally impossible," Tony says flatly.

 

Bruce looks him in the eye. "No," he says firmly, "It’s not."

 

"How, exactly, is it not impossible?" Tony asks, incredulous. "Bruce, you can’t just buy it online--"

 

"Tony," Bruce interrupts. "Just let me handle it. Okay?"

 

"Yeah," Tony agrees, somewhat reluctant. Getting really upset over anything is too much work, anyways, and he put his life in Banner’s hands months ago. Why not trust him further?

 

"Is it--" Bruce hesitates. "Can I ask about the reactor?"

 

Tony frowns. _You can trust him_. "What about it?"

 

"How exactly it works," Bruce offers. "Its dimensions. How much vibranium you might actually need. Though, that requires more experience in engineering than what I actually have."

 

"Well," Tony says, shrugging, "It might be fun to actually do something other than stare up at the ceiling all day. What do you need to know?"

 

Bruce looks so heartbreakingly relieved that he can’t bear to regret his decision.

  
  


_Eight weeks_

"Tony," says Bruce, wringing his hands with a nervous smile on his face. He’s hovering in the doorway, blocking the view into the hallway, and it’s making Tony deeply suspicious. "I’d like to remind you that you’re sick, okay, and you shouldn’t exert yourself doing strenuous things, like--standing up, or getting angry, or--"

 

"Bruce," Tony says dangerously, "what did you do?"

 

Now he shrugs. "I got help."

 

That’s… disturbingly vague.

 

Without another word, Bruce shuffles to the side, his fingers trying to wear down the skin on the back of his hands, and a tall, dark mysterious stranger makes his presence known.  As the well-dressed African man passes through the threshold, Tony tenses up, his eyes narrowing slightly as he registered the unsettlingly familiar face.  On both sides of his scalp there were perfectly symmetrical lines where hair had been shaved or refused to grow and… _oh, shit_.

 

"Bruce," he says in carefully spoken Spanish, " _What the fuck_."

 

And the man has the nerve to look almost startled. "Do you--?"

 

But the stranger--or not, really--answers for him. In English, no less. "Ah. So we meet again, Mr.--"

 

"Yeah," Tony says in a strangely high-pitched voice, well on his way to panic. He reverts to Marathi, his sole language for the last three years, on complete accident. "Did I apologize for crash landing on your property yet? Because really. Uh, sorry. Prince. My Prince? Sir? Uh."

 

He gets an unimpressed raised eyebrow in return. "T’challa is fine, for the time being."

 

Tony nods, wide-eyed. "Sure. T’challa." He turns to Bruce, consciously switching languages. "So, how’d you get a prince from a different country to our hotel room?"

 

Bruce blinks. "Prince?" he starts, but T’challa-- _T’challa, the prince of Wakanda_ \--beats him to it.

 

"Shall we stick to one language?" he inquires _in Spanish_ and Tony is so embarrassed. He’s even got that little smirk, the one Tony remembers from when he fumbled over addressing the king that one time ten years ago. Oh god. Why. "One that we all understand?"

 

Christ. "Let’s," he agrees warily.

 

"Also," T’challa continues as Bruce closes the door behind them, "You are forgiven. Mostly."

 

Bruce perks up. "Forgiven? For what?"

 

"For crashing my plane into the city walls?" Tony volunteers, fiddling with the blankets. He hasn’t felt so cornered in a long time.

 

"It helps that you paid for the damage," T’challa affirms, crossing his arms over his chest. "But also for nearly bedding my cousin."

 

Tony points an accusing finger at the man. "Almost," he repeats. "I didn’t, although she--he? was very attractive, not to mention willing. I held off! You really can’t hold that against me."

 

"Do I--" Bruce says, voice a little off, and when they turn to face him he’s all sorts of flustered and confused, "Do I want to know?"

 

"No," says Tony, at the same time as T’challa. They glance at each other again. God, it’s almost like Tony had fucked T’challa himself instead of his cousin. Who he didn’t have sex with.

 

At all.

 

Because there’s a difference between claiming to have fucked royalty and _actually fucking royalty_.

 

He coughs.

 

"What I want to know," he changes the subject elegantly, "Is how you two met."

 

Bruce half-smiles and rubs the back of his neck and Tony knows he did something illegal. "I requested an audience?"

 

T’challa makes a quiet sound, expression unreadable, and Tony realizes it’s a sound of amusement. Almost a _laugh_.

 

Wow, his life got surreal really quick.

 

"Haha," he says, half on autopilot as he contemplates his life, "Try again."

 

"I did," Bruce insists, "It was just a little… unorthodox."

 

"By which he means he attempted to access my computer from an outside source."

 

Tony sputters a laugh. "You _hacked_ a prince’s computer?"

 

Bruce just shrugs. "Wakanda has vibranium."

 

And that just kills the mood dead.

 

"Bruce," he says quietly, seriously, " _You didn’t_."

 

"So what if I did?" his friend asks, the picture of nervous defiance. "You need help, Tony, the dosage isn’t working as well anymore--"

 

"You don’t _risk your life trying to save a dead man_ ," Tony snarls, sitting up too quickly. He takes a calming breath. "Don’t be _stupid_ , Banner."

 

"You’re not dead yet," Bruce argues. "If I can do something, I will, and you can’t--you can’t give up so soon."

 

"The hell I can’t," he snaps. "If it’s impossible, it’s impossible, so _let it go_."

 

" _I won’t_ ," Bruce roars. " _Not for you_."

 

That seems to bring them both up short, words failing as they glare for all they’re worth. Tony takes deep, heaving breaths, releasing the tension slowly.

 

"If it helps," the prince puts in, voice mild, "I am strongly considering his offer."

 

"What offer?" Tony growls, still staring Bruce down.

 

"That’s something you need to discuss with your friend," he answers. "I will return tomorrow." He nods at them both before turning and leaving the room. The door clicks shut behind him.

 

" _What offer_ , Bruce?"

 

But the man only sighs, removing his glasses and cleaning them slowly with the end of his shirt. "Let’s not do this tonight."

 

"No," Tony says, "I think tonight is a very good time to have this discussion."

 

"No," Bruce counters with a steely tone. "I disagree."

 

" _Bruce_ \--"

 

"It doesn’t concern you."

 

That hits Tony like a slap to the face. "W-what?"

 

"I said it doesn’t concern you, Tony," Bruce says, staring at the wall behind Tony’s head.

 

"Fine," he says softly. "Then I’m going to bed."

 

Bruce nods stiffly, replacing his glasses. "Goodnight, Tony."

 

"Yeah." Frustrated and miserable, he lies down and mashes his face into his pillow, waiting for sleep to get him out of this nightmare.

 

**8**

 

It's no better the next day. When Tony first wakes he thinks, maybe it was all a dream. Maybe the crown prince of Wakanda didn't come to their hotel room. Maybe Bruce didn't admit to asking said prince for his country's most valued resource, vibranium, when the country is known to _never share_. As one of the world's strongest and rarest metals, vibranium is extremely dangerous, and the country of Wakanda is sitting upon a literal mountain of it. If they were to trade it with other countries… well. To say the results would be catastrophic is an understatement. Thus, the very idea of Bruce walking up to the prince and just asking for some to save him is just preposterous. Ridiculous.

 

_I am strongly considering his offer._

Shit.

 

Today he struggles to function through the haze of sickly exhaustion. His arms tremble when he pushes himself into a sitting position, and when he manages to swing his legs over the side of the bed he knows walking is out of the question.

 

Bruce is nowhere to be seen.

 

On one hand, he's horribly, guiltily relieved. On the other hand, humiliating as it is, he knows he won't be going anywhere without help.

 

So now, sitting on the bed, annoyed and starting to worry about the silence--Bruce is always there in the mornings--he's stuck perched on the edge of the bed, aching and sweating and wishing he could do something without help _for once in his damn life_.

 

Then the toilet flushes and Bruce pops out of the bathroom, wiping a washcloth over his face. He looks up and takes in Tony's predicament in silence.

 

Tony arches an eyebrow.

 

His friend shuffles in place. "Need help?"

 

"Maybe."

 

He sighs. "Can you move at all?"

 

"Not really. I think…"

 

"I'll prepare another dose tomorrow."

 

**8**

 

Someone knocks on the door as his arm is being swabbed. He's instructed to continue cleaning the area as Bruce gets the door. It's T'challa, of course, wearing a nice button-down shirt and slacks; it's a step down from the suit and tie he was wearing yesterday and the day before, but only slightly. Just like yesterday, he steps in quietly and closes the door behind him, eyes fixed on the cotton ball in Tony's hand.

 

"He's getting his next dose today," Bruce explains, moving over to his bag and pulling out the case of syringes. "If you don't mind…"

 

"Of course." T'challa takes a step back and practically plasters himself to the motel wall, watching keenly as he prepares the "medication." Tony eyes it warily; he's sick and tired of the headaches, the nausea, the burning pain radiating from his chest as the black lines of poison crawl down his arms and up his neck. As each dose wears off, they inch just a little bit further under his skin than the time before.

 

"Not looking forward to this," he mutters. Bruce makes an apologetic noise, sliding the needle in as the prince watches carefully from his spot along the wall.

 

As usual, the liquid burns going in. Tony grimaces and waits for the feeling to ease before allowing Bruce to help him to the bathroom. "Might as well just sit me on the floor," he grunts. "'M only gonna end up there in ten minutes anyways."

 

"If you're sure," Bruce mutters, and obliges. Behind them, T'challa inches closer.

 

Sure enough, within six minutes, he's heaving his guts into the toilet. His head is pounding, every inch of his body throbbing with his heartbeat as the dose does its work. Is it his imagination, or can he feel the palladium in his blood receding? He'll never know, because he can't see for shit when he's like this.

 

And the whole time, T'challa is watching from the doorway.

 

Eventually it passes. Tony rests his head on the toilet seat, soaked with sweat and shivering. "This sucks," he croaks. Bruce sighs and tugs him away from the toilet, hands gentle on his shoulders.

 

"I'm sorry," he sighs, the way he does every time. Tony brushes it off with a weak wave of his hand.

 

"'Sfine," he says, regretting his previous choice of words. "Got any water?"

 

Bruce offers an uncapped bottle wordlessly. Tony downs half of it and spits the other half back out.

 

"Got any ginger ale?" he jokes, allowing his friend to help him to his feet and walk him to the bed. His head is spinning so much he doesn't think he could keep down anything more than what he already forced down.

 

"Not this time," Bruce says quietly. He pulls the blankets back so Tony can climb in and sink bonelessly into the mattress.

 

"I’ve seen enough."

 

Both men look up to the speaker. T’challa’s standing tall, with his arms crossed and a pinched expression.

 

"Screw you," says Tony, "I’m the prettiest princess."

 

Bruce snorts and shakes his head. T’challa seems to ignore all this in favor of continuing.

 

"It is nearly too late for you," he says in a monotone. "If you can’t find a way to make your… _treatment_ work better, you will soon die."

 

Bruce bristles. "There’s only so much I can do--"

 

"And that is why I will provide you with the vibranium you need to construct a new core for your arc reactor."

  
  


_Nine weeks_

Tony’s still reeling. T’challa’s been checking in every day, and every time he acts as though he didn’t just agree to go against his country’s laws to save one miserable guy. One miserable guy who caused problems in the man’s home, no less.

 

And in exchange for what?

 

Bruce has remained mum on the subject, refusing to even respond to Tony’s pestering. However, each time his expression gets a little more strained, and that tips him off.

 

_Time to take a step back_. He won’t talk, and that’s final.

 

They’re eating breakfast--tea and sweet bread--when they hear the customary single knock on the door. T’challa invites himself in, slipping into the room near soundlessly. The door to this motel room squeals harshly, though, ruining the effect and startling Tony into dropping his bread on the thin sheets.

 

"You can’t stay here," the prince says abruptly after taking in the whole room.

 

Tony scowls, swiping the crumbs to the floor and hoping the ants don’t come back. "Why not?"

 

"These are hardly decent conditions for a sickly person such as yourself," is the severe reply. "Pack your things. I will ensure you get the accommodations you need."

 

**8**

 

The hotel is… rich. Plush carpeting, western style _everything_ , decent room service, ridiculously expensive alcohol. Tony sinks into the duvet, halfway to shock. He hasn’t felt anything this soft in years. After all this time on a cheap mattress, it’s almost too soft to be comfortable.

 

Bruce gets his own bed, too. It’s several feet away from Tony’s, a nice wood side table with a lamp and two drawers between them.

 

And T’challa is paying for it.

 

"You will remain here," he instructs, "As long as it is safe for you to do so. Do not hesitate to purchase what you need." Tony wonders exactly how much Bruce told the man about their situation.

 

The prince indicates a safe in the corner of the room. "There is emergency money in that safe over there in case you need to make a quick escape. My suite is one floor below this one if you need to see me." He nods firmly. "Rest well."

 

And then he’s gone.

 

_Ten weeks_

They’re still in the fancy hotel. They figure they’re safe here: even if SHIELD did find out about Tony, they have to know that normally the two of them would be on a budget restricting them to the cheap hovels they were living in up until last week. And that’s assuming SHIELD isn’t looking in a different country already. With anyone else, it’s more than feasible.  

 

T’challa still hasn’t insisted they leave.

 

It’s a nice change, Tony thinks. The food is better, the bathroom is way cleaner, the sheets are clean, the bed is soft, the air is clear of dust and doesn’t taste of mold. Tony can stretch out if he wants, Bruce can put his glasses somewhere that isn’t the floor, they can drink and eat cold foods…

 

Tony would enjoy it more if he could leave the room. Alas, now he’s got two professionals on his case, so he’s stuck with bed rest for all eternity. That is, until T’challa can wrap up whatever business he’s doing here and get back to Wakanda. He swore he would return with however much they would need, and wouldn’t "make the trade" until he had the vibranium in his hands.

 

Bruce still won’t tell Tony what he promised in return. Nor will the prince say a word about it. It’s frustrating, but Tony’s given up by this point. He’s too tired to do much but doze and eat. Not that it matters much anymore, because there’s only one dose of Bruce’s lithium concoction left, and after that, Tony’s a dead man without the vibranium.

 

It’s getting easier to think about that without a pang of fear stealing his breath away.

 

He’s playing with the insides of the desk phone when T’challa marches in. Bruce looks up from the book he’s reading on the other bed.

 

"What’s wrong?" he asks, observing the deep scowl the prince walked in with. The other man sighs.

 

"My kingdom is under attack," he states. "I must leave immediately. Stay in this room if you can. I will return with the vibranium before the last of your medication fulfills its use. If you are forced to run while I am gone, rest assured I will find you." He pauses, still in the doorway. "I am sorry."

 

"No, it’s fine," Bruce starts, but the man is already gone, door clicking shut quietly behind him.

 

"Well, fuck," says Tony. He sets the phone parts down, screwdriver still in hand. "What now?"

 

Bruce shakes his head. "I have no idea."

 

_Eleven weeks_

No word from T’challa. The hotel room is starting to look like a prison.

 

"Soon," Bruce promises. He wipes at Tony’s forehead with the damp washcloth. "Just have to wait it out."

 

Tony groans, shivering through a high fever. "Feels like I’m dying."

 

"That’s because you are," Bruce says evenly, though the few drops squeezed out of the cloth tell Tony how he really feels. "Next week you can have the last dose, and then T’challa will have the vibranium and the place to build yourself a new reactor."

 

"Next week can’t come fast enough," Tony mutters. Bruce just sighs, patting his forehead again.

 

"We’ll be okay," he says. "I promise."

 

_Twelve weeks_

"Don’t be such a dick," Bruce says, scowling. He leans back in the wood chair by the desk, arms crossed. "He said he’d back."

 

"It’s been two weeks," Tony stresses, slouched on the bed. "I just took the last dose yesterday. Another week and I’m as good as dead, Bruce. Don’t you get that?"

 

"That’s no reason to lose hope," he argues.

 

"You were perfectly fine with my dying last week!"

 

"I wasn’t!" Bruce glares daggers at him, getting to his feet and kicking at the leg of the chair. "Last week you were sick, Tony. I thought you were going to die. I was trying to accept it, so that I wouldn’t _lose it if you left me here alone_."

 

Tony stares at him, unable to come up with anything to say.

 

Bruce takes in a shuddering breath. "We’ve been friends for two years, Tony. We’ve been living together for six months. I don’t have anybody else. That’s why I’m not just _accepting it_ like you are. I don’t want you to die. I have _hope_." He runs a hand through his hair. "You know what--I need to take a walk. I’ll be back."

 

"Yeah, just like T’challa," Tony can’t help but mumble, wildly angry and hurt and confused and knowing he’s crossing lines, knowing he’s aiming to hurt, and he knows he succeeded when Bruce flinches.

 

" _Fuck_ you, Tony," his friend says tiredly, and leaves.

 

Tony stares at the chair, feeling sick. He needs to stop taking his frustration out on poor Bruce. He doesn’t deserve any of this: not this stress, not Tony’s ending life in his hands, not the mood swings or the frequent sickness or--or any of it. Tony would’ve died months ago if not for Bruce. Why does he keep pushing the man away?

 

Maybe he’s just tired.

 

With a sigh, Tony leans backwards until his back meets the duvet, staring up at the smooth ceiling. He’ll apologize when Bruce gets back.

 

**8**

 

It’s been an hour, and Bruce isn’t back yet. Tony’s starting to worry about it. He’s never scared the doctor off for this long before. Parts of his body are starting to go numb from lying like this, so he decides to sit up and maybe eat a banana or something.

 

Mistake.

 

As soon as he moves, he can feel something off with the arc reactor. He pauses, considering the familiar feeling, and in the can make out a nearly inaudible sizzle.

 

_Shit._

As quick as he can, Tony leaps to his feet and darts for his bag on the desk. Now that he’s moving around he can feel the light-headedness, the sharp pains around and beneath the reactor as the palladium core disintegrates inside his body. The bag seems to have a million zippers and pockets, none of them holding the little baggie of cores he tucked away somewhere. He yelps when he finds it, fumbling it open and digging out one of the little chips inside. The bag gets tossed aside and he tugs his shirt off, ignoring the pain in his muscles as they stretch. One click, two, and his trembling hands tug the arc reactor out of its place.

 

He can feel it the moment the charge keeping the shrapnel in place dissipates: a miniscule vibration he would never have noticed before suddenly stops, and the pressure mounts. The shrapnel won’t move for a short while, so he’s got time, but by this point his heart relies on the reactor to keep its beating steady, so he really doesn’t have that much time. His hands shake violently as he tries to get the smoking chunk of palladium out of the core--he takes a moment to curse his inability to make the reactor spring-loaded or something--without burning his fingers.

 

"Fuck it," he mutters, turning the reactor upside down and shaking it until the palladium comes out. The carpet hisses as it makes contact, but he could care less at the moment. He takes the new chip in hand and tries to cram it into place, vision blurring as his heart starts to protest the lack of help. Triumph flares as he finally manages to fit it in, sliding the cover over it and moving to pop it back into place.

 

He drops the reactor.

 

The situation is so ridiculous he just stares, heart pounding painfully in his chest, as the piece of technology keeping him alive rolls away from him, towards the closed door.

_Are you kidding me right now._

Tony lunges after it, burning his foot on the used chip and tripping as he reaches out toward the reactor. His face mashes into the carpet, jarring his chest painfully, and he coughs out all the air in his lungs.

 

After a few attempts, he realizes he can’t get back up, so he crawls. It’s just a few feet away, but from where he’s looking it seems like a mile. His whole body is a mess of pain and disorienting numbness at this point, and he doesn’t realized he’s curled up on the floor until the reactor disappears from his line of vision.

 

_Move_!

Then the door opens and Tony, feeling strangely fuzzy around the edges, barely has enough presence of mind to think: Bruce.

 

**8**

 

He blinks and finds himself flat on his back, staring up into Bruce’s worried face. There’s a soft pressure on his ribcage, one that turns out to be the doctor’s hand flat over the reactor. For some reason, this doesn’t worry him at all.

 

"Tony?" he hears, and connects the voice to the way Bruce just moved his mouth. "Hey. Can you hear me?"

 

A gurgling sound makes it out of his throat and he jerks his head once, seriously disconnected and weirded out about it. Bruce smiles with clear relief.

 

"Thank god," he breathes, sitting back so Tony can see the ceiling again. It really is a nice ceiling. No stains or anything.

 

His head takes its time clearing out the fog, Bruce bobbing in and out of his line of sight as things happen around him. He clears his throat, swallowing spit and something metallic. _Blood_ , he thinks, and isn’t too concerned about it. He can tell it came from the inside of his cheek.

 

"Hey," Bruce says again, leaning over so Tony can see him, "You ready to sit up? I called room service."

 

Tony makes his head move. "Shure," he says clumsily. "Lessdo it."  

 

His head spins as Bruce gets an arm around his shoulders and tugs him into a sitting position. "Wa-happened?" he manages, blinking rapidly as he finally crawls out of his own head to take in his surroundings. The reactor’s in place, his shirt’s back on, there’s blood on the floor, the carpet has a black hole in it, and fruit is scattered all over the room. He must’ve gone shopping. "‘M not dead," he realizes. Bruce stiffens.

 

"No," he says icily, "you’re not. Lucky for you I came in right when you passed out. A few minutes later and we wouldn’t be having this conversation."

 

"Why not?" he asks, bewildered.

 

"Because you would be dead. Don’t you care?"

 

He shrugs. "Sorta. Not really. It’s weird."

 

"What do you mean, not really? " And Tony knows he fucked up when the hand steadying his shoulder clamps like a vice over the bone, likely bruising him instantly. Bruce is behind him, so Tony can’t see his expression. But his voice is enough: layers upon layers of raw fury, deeper than it should be.

 

"Bruce--" he tries.

 

"You don’t get to decide when you die," Bruce snarls, voice still improbably deep. His grip tightens further. "I’ve been trying to help you from _day one_. You don’t get to throw that all away on a whim. You don’t have the right to give up when everyone around you is still trying to make sure you’ll be okay. _Do you understand_?"

 

"Bruce--"

 

" _Do you_?"

 

"Bruce," Tony says quietly, "You’re hurting me."

 

Just like that, Bruce is a solid four feet away, hands fisted at his sides. His face is twisted horribly, eyes glowing a sickening green above his warped grimace.

 

_The Hulk_ , Tony understands with a sick twist of fear in his gut. _I brought out the Hulk_.

 

" _God dammit_ ," his friend howls, turning and kicking the chair; it shatters on impact, hunks of wood flying everywhere. "You can’t _do_ that, Tony!"

 

"I know, Bruce," he hurries to say, reaching forward with one hand from his place leaning against the bed. "I’m sorry, I just--"

 

" _No excuses_ ," he spits, inhumane. "I’m _sick_ of it--"

 

There’s a dainty knock on the door. Both Tony and Bruce freeze. "Room service," some woman calls, voice muffled by the door.

 

"N-not right now!" Tony pleads, locking eyes with Bruce. "Come back later!"

 

"Okay!" she says cheerily. "Please back away from the door!"

 

The handle turns. Tony’s head whips around to stare in horror as a small woman with a tray full of food ducks into the room. She yips when she spies the wood chip sticking out of the wallpaper.

 

"What happened?" she questions, turning to face the two men. Her eyes widen, and Tony can just see how her eyes flick from him, on the floor with his hand up, to Bruce, hunched over and furious, to the blood on the floor, to the broken chair. The food tray hits the floor. "Oh," she squeaks. "I’m--sorry, I’ll just--"

 

"Don’t call the police," Bruce growls, glaring daggers at her. She pales.

 

"Sir," she says, clearly panicking, speaking to Tony, "Do you need help?"

 

"No," he says, "No, no, you idiot, get away _now_ and let me handle it--"

 

" _SHUT UP, TONY_ ," Bruce bellows. The woman screams and darts down the hall.

 

"Fuck," Tony finds himself chanting, backing up further. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, _Bruce_ \--"

 

" _Get out_ ," Bruce rumbles, doubling over and grabbing at his head. He tugs on his hair harshly and Tony desperately wants to help but this is on him, _he fucked up-- "Get out of here now, Tony."_

"W-what, no," he sputters. "I can’t just leave you--"

 

" _Tony_ ," Bruce snaps, voice deepening even further so that Tony can feel it vibrating in his chest, " _take the emergency money and get out now or I will throw you out that window_."

 

"Fuck, fuck, okay," Tony agrees, panicking. He scrambles to his feet, sways, runs to get his bag on his way to the safe. Bruce is growling and snarling behind him, fabric tearing behind him and he’s so terrified he almost fucks up the safe combo. There’s a roar the second he gets the door open so he snatches up the money without further hesitation, turning on his heel and booking it past the spasming green mass to the open doorway. Here he pauses, just for a moment.

 

"I’m coming back," he swears. "When this is all over with, I’m coming back for you, okay?"

 

" _I’ll find you_ ," a voice that doesn’t belong to Bruce rumbles. " _Now go_."

 

Swearing, Tony obeys.

 

 


	21. end of the line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love to Bro C for not sobbing all over me while reading this chapter, and to Biscuit, my lovely beta, for fixing all my mistakes and making this chapter better!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. It's done. I literally, I cannot believe I finished this fic.
> 
> This is the first time I've ever finished anything, and it's all thanks to you.
> 
> I can't thank you enough for your kind words, your support, your forgiveness, your patience.... I was so excited to share this with you that I finished it in three days, and it may show, but oh my god. It's actually done. I think I may cry.
> 
> On to important things: the sequel will be up in the next few days. For all those people who don't feel like looking for it when I do post, I'll add a small bonus chapter here to sort of let you all know that I've posted the sequel so you can click the little arrow button next to the series link and find it. It'll be titled Anchored in Dust and hopefully I'll be as psyched to get that first chapter to you as I was to share this.
> 
> Wow, this just means so much to me. I seriously think I'm going to go cry in a corner now. Or, y'know, in the middle of the student lounge. I'm one of THOSE people.
> 
> Well, friends, this is it! I hope you enjoy this chapter! Please don't start a mutiny when you reach the end.

 

_Thirteen weeks_

His hand looks strange in the afternoon sun. 

 

When he raises it into the light it glows red, of course. There are dark patches where his bone is thick enough to block the sunlight. If he squints he thinks he can see tendons. His fingernails are outlined in darker tones. The poison in his bloodstream looks silver. Because of it, he can see his veins, thrown into sharp relief by the metal building up in them. The lines are all over the back of his hand, yet not quite reaching his palm. It doesn't matter, though, because they will soon, and when they do he'll be dead. 

 

Tony sighs, resting his head on the shuddering window next to him. The old woman to his right is giving him an odd look; no doubt she spotted the damage and is wondering what the hell happened. Tony can't be bothered to even acknowledge her existence, too busy staring blankly at the passing countryside.

 

The guilt is overwhelming.

 

_He'd gotten out of the building and across the street before the wall exploded outwards. It was terrifying; he stared as a massive green monster burst through the gaping hole in the building, roaring and punching the debris around him. Not three minutes later, black cars and helicopters surrounded the building, emblazoned with a stylized eagle logo -- one very familiar to Tony thanks to Bruce. Armed people flooded out and Tony backed away, ducking into an alley as they pointed their weapons at the Hulk._

_The Hulk howled at them, dropping the chunks of cement and hotel littering the ground as they opened fire. People were screaming, streaming out of buildings and cars, running as far away as they could. The SHIELD agents were yelling orders to surround the Hulk, who roared incomprehensibly at them all before kicking off and literally scaling the hotel building. Once he reached the roof, he jumped over and was gone. Most of the SHIELD agents followed. The rest filed into the building._

_Cursing, Tony turned on his heel and ran for the nearest train station._

__  
  


He's been traveling by train for a whole week now, stopping every night at the nearest hotel to sleep and eat. He's seeing SHIELD everywhere and Bruce nowhere, having long since given up on T'challa and the rescue he could bring. He and Bruce are separated, anyways. The prince couldn't feasibly find both of them before Tony ran out of time. 

 

Speaking of running out of time… He's got very little left. The constant movement and rough travel's been wearing on his system. The only reason each dose of Bruce's concoction lasted so long was because he never burned it off with physical activity. His musculature has wasted away, leaving him thin and tired and feeling every jolt of the train in his bones. He aches. He burns. Every breath takes an impossible amount of effort. Truth be told, Tony's honestly surprised he made it this long. Willpower, he supposes, has been keeping him going. But it can only do so much in the very real face of death. 

 

Because he's dying, and he knows it. Exhaustion drags at him whenever he so much as lifts a finger. He gets up slowly as the PA announces their arrival at the final stop, feeling ancient and sick. Someone offers to help him carry his bag as he limps off the train and into the station. He declines politely, offering the shadow of a hopeless smile.

 

 There's a haze of grey on the edge of his vision. He knows he won't see Bruce again, won't see his warm smiles, won't get to discuss the latest science column in the paper, won't watch him clean his glasses with the left corner of his shirt, won't get to enjoy his food choice or his half-decent singing in the shower. Or Pepper. He misses Pepper: her soft fur, bright blue eyes, her gentle purr when he stroked behind her ears… Her laugh whenever he said something particularly witty, her reluctant smile at his latest escapade, her long hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, her mischievous grin when she arranged a meeting with someone he particularly disliked. Rhodey's firm handshake, his 'serious' face borne of the military -- the one that always cracks when Tony sticks his tongue out at him, his warm hugs. Jarvis' cool voice, his subtle wit, his endless loyalty and source of good conversation. His bots, DUM-E and U, whose presence he's missed since the day he left Malibu for the last time, whose antics never failed to make him smile, whose slow but sure learning surprised him every time they showed him something new.

 

There's a beautiful park across the street from the station. Tony decides that's a nice place to rest awhile. 

 

His mind's eye is half filled with memories, half with the beautiful trees and flowers that make up his surroundings. He sinks onto the nearest park bench, his thousand-pound bag slipping from his shoulder to the space at his side. 

 

"Is this it, then?" he wonders, staring up at the blue sky. Someone chuckles to his right. 

 

"More or less," Yinsen replies. "Though I always thought you'd go out with a bang."

 

"This is a bang," Tony corrects him. "And what're you still doing here?" 

 

"Ah," a tired sigh, "I don't really know anymore. You're better than you used to be." 

 

Tony snorts. "You some kind of guardian angel?"

 

"Hardly," is the breezy reply. "Doctor Banner has helped you more than you know." 

 

"I believe it," he murmurs. "So what now?"

 

"Now you die," says Yinsen, "And never see me again."

 

Tony groans. "Thank god," he grouses. "Every time I saw you I thought I was crazy." 

 

"You were." 

 

"Well that's not very nice --" But when he turns around to glare, there's nothing but empty air. He scoffs and returns to looking up at the sky.

 

He hopes Bruce won't be too upset when he finds out Tony's gone.

 

The sky is darkening as clouds pass. Or maybe it's his vision. Either way, his other senses tell him when other people surround him, and he knows it's SHIELD. He spent enough time around military and government agencies to recognize their carefully measured gait. 

 

_So this is the end, huh?_

 

Tony can't see anymore. He's not sure whether it's because his eyes are closed or if he simply has lost his eyesight, and he can't be bothered to care. The world lost its meaning at some point; he can feel himself fading. 

 

Footsteps approach. An urgent voice behind him. A sharp yell. A hand on his shoulder, shaking roughly. His name. 

 

But it doesn't matter, because he's already gone. 

 

**8**

 

_Thirteen weeks_

It was huge. 

 

For some reason, despite the clear picture the recordings offered, Steve had never realized exactly how massive the Hulk is. Only after seeing that wall destroyed, as only a bomb could do back in the day, did he realize exactly what he was up against. Exactly what humanity created from greed. 

 

Because of his blood. The serum in his veins.

 

He would offer himself to the nearest lab if he didn't know what would come of it. 

 

As it is, the Hulk escaped, and SHIELD is at a loss. It seemed to disappear into thin air. To make things worse, so did Stark. 

 

When SHIELD investigated the room Hulk had escaped from, the evidence inside made it clear there had been two people here. Steve had to wonder about what happened. There had been jagged chunks of broken wood everywhere: Embedded into walls, splinters in the bedding, scattered across the carpeting. There was blood soaked into the carpet as well, and a charred hole presumably created by what the lab recently declared is a slab of burnt palladium. The blood, they also noted, is Stark's. 

 

The poor woman who called the police was hysterical. She swears she had been delivering food to Stark and Banner's room when she saw what she reported: a small, sick-looking man on the floor, backed up against the bed while the other man screamed, hunched over and covered in splinters, and looked as though he was going to attack. The smaller man looked scared, she said, and there had been blood on his face and the carpet. He'd tried to convince her to leave. The angry man had seemed to be growing larger, and by that point had been growling like an animal, so she'd run away to call for help. Nobody had seen Stark leave.

 

At that point, the police contacted SHIELD. 

 

That was last week. This week, SHIELD divided its forces in two: look for Banner, and look for Stark. Steve is heading the force looking for Stark. Coulson's in charge of Banner's. They're working together in hopes that the two men will meet up again soon, but no luck. 

 

Coulson's currently on the opposite side of the city they're searching this week. It's the only city with a Stane Tower, so Steve highly doubts Stark will be here, but anything's possible. The city is huge, he knows. Stark could be anywhere, and a big place like this has innumerable hiding places. 

 

He's passing the train station when he gets the call. 

 

_"Captain Rogers,"_ a vaguely familiar voice says -- it's one of the new agents he met at the Hulk site who volunteered to work with him. Brady? Bunt? Hm. _"This is Agent Burns reporting in. I have Stark in my line of sight."_

 

Steve tenses, instantly ready for a fight. "Where?"

 

_"In the park across the train station. He's sitting alone on a bench near the entrance."_

 

"Inform Coulson," he instructs. "I'm going in."

 

_"Understood."_ There's a small click as Burns switches channels. Steve stares at the park entrance, directly across the street from him. 

 

Stark is there. Right there. Doing who knows what. 

 

_Maybe he's waiting for Banner._

 

Shrugging, Steve wishes he had his shield as he crosses the street into the park. 

 

For a short moment, he's distracted by all the life: The tall trees, the neatly trimmed grass, the flowers and weeds and people wandering around in pairs, talking quietly and walking hand in hand. It's a beautiful sight, and he wishes he'd seen something like this when he first woke up.

 

Then he sees the lone figure on a bench and refocuses. 

 

Stark's hair has gotten a little longer since Steve last saw him in Clint's photo. Other than that, he can only see the tip of the man's nose; his head is tipped back over the edge of the bench, so the only thing he could see is the sky. He's not moving. 

 

Is he breathing?

 

A dozen scenarios fly through his head as he makes his way over to Stark. He's not making an effort to stay silent now, crossing the distance in just a few long strides. As he approaches he takes in the small things written into Stark's posture and knows he's at the very least unconscious. 

 

He also sees the black lines crawling up his face. 

 

That brings him up short. He slows to a walk, eyes narrowing as he examines them up close. They're a silvery greenish black, he decides, unable to really pin a specific color on them. They look a little different the longer he looks at them, a little more sinister. He doesn't realize how close he is, though, until he's reaching out and touching the raised lines on Stark's clammy jaw. 

 

Steve freezes, expecting Stark to wake up, but the man's head only lolls to one side. Now that he's closer he can see the faint, stuttering rise and fall of his chest. However, he also sees these ominous dark marks -- under his skin, he realizes, these are veins he's touching--going down past the collar of his shirt. 

 

He thought this would be difficult. He thought trying to finally arrest Stark would be a fight. He wasn't expecting a pale, sick man, unconscious or possibly comatose, alone. 

 

It's worrisome, to say the least. What are all these black veins? Why is he alone? Where is Banner? Why won't he wake up?

 

Steve turns on his comm unit. "Agent Burns, this is Rogers. I have Stark. He's --" a pause, a moment of hesitation, "He looks sick."

 

_"That he does,"_ Burns agrees. _"I half-thought he was dead. What do you want to do?"_

 

"Call in the medevac," he decides. "Take him to a SHIELD infirmary. I'll talk to Coulson and we'll make a plan from there."

 

_"Understood,_ " is Burns' reply. _"Sending Hawkeye your way. Medevac in six minutes."_ The line clicks off. Steve sighs, unsure as to what exactly to do in this situation.

 

His hand moves to Stark's shoulder, gently shaking. "Stark," he calls. "Hey. Can you hear me?"

 

No response. Is it his imagination, or is Stark starting to look worse?

 

"Holy hell. He looks like shit." 

 

Steve almost jumps, surprised as usual by Clint's silent approach. "He looks awful," he agrees, turning to face the agent. "Coulson know what's happening?"

 

"He does," Clint assures him. He's got his arms crossed and a frown on his face. "Seriously, though. Is he even breathing?"

 

"More or less," Steve mutters. He gives up on waking the man, stepping back to join Clint. "What d'you suppose all that black is?"

 

"If I had to guess?" The agent tilts his head, considering the picture before him. "I'd say poison. But I've never seen anything quite like that."

 

"You think there are any clues in his bag?"

 

"Doesn't hurt to look," Clint agrees. 

 

The bag itself is a ratty old backpack with one strap, so faded it barely has any red left on it. Half the zippers are missing pull tabs. The contents are relatively normal: a couple articles of clothing, some paper and pens, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a pocket knife, a wallet, and a shaving kit. There's also a toy mouse and a small bag of heavy rectangular pieces of metal. Steve pockets the cat toy while Clint hefts the bag in one hand, considering. 

 

"Looks a lot like the palladium from the hotel," he says, and Steve agrees. 

 

"But how did that piece get damaged?" he wonders aloud.

 

Clint eyes Stark's chest. "Shall we find out?" 

 

Steve just shrugs. 

 

The agent smirks a little, pulling out a black pocket knife and grabbing the collar of Stark's shirt. "SHIELD will give him a new one," he says, and rips into it. The fabric tears from the neck to the navel, baring the skin underneath.

 

The sight repulses them both. 

 

Those thin, almost delicate lines on the man's throat and jawline are nothing compared to the thick inky mess on his chest. They all start growing from the ring around a glowing piece of technology they recognize as an arc reactor centered under his collarbones, right where the sternum should be. It's obvious by the long, jagged scars that the reactor goes deeper than it should, and it's horrifying.

 

Steve moves to close the torn cloth over the sight, shaking his head. "So now we know where the palladium goes," he says with forced levity. 

 

"And I can guess what the poison is," Clint sighs, slipping his knife into one of his many pockets. "Christ." 

 

Just then, the comm link clicks on. _"Captain Rogers, this is Burns. Medical's coming in with an ambulance and stretcher. Agent Coulson requests you stay put until he's loaded."_

 

"Understood," Steve confirms. A glance at Barton tells him he got the same message.

 

"They're gonna take him to a jet," Clint says. "It's a quick flight with the new model. Coulson just told me to fly it, so I guess I'm going with them." He glances at Stark's unmoving form. "I'll make sure he gets help."

 

"Please," Steve sighs as the stretcher arrives. 

 

**8**

 

Steve ducks into the trailer, feeling as old as his birth certificate says he is. Coulson's seated at the table next to the blank screens, coffee in hand. He looks up as Steve closes the door.

 

"How'd it go?" he asks. 

 

"I think Stark's gonna die before we can ask him anything," he says honestly, seating himself next to Coulson. 

 

The agent groans. "Fantastic," he mumbles. "Here, take the cat." He indicates his lap, or rather the large ginger lump curled up on it. Pepper perks up as Steve comes near, stretching luxuriously by digging her claws into Coulson's legs. She doesn't protest when Steve plucks her from his lap and drops her into his; rather, she perks up and starts sniffing his hands and arms before rubbing her face on them. He fights to keep his hands still under the pressure, knowing she hates it when he moves while she's doing this. When she's done, though, he pulls out the cat toy and waves it in front of her face. 

 

Her eyes widen and she lunges forward, snatching the pink mouse from his fingers and toppling to the floor. The two men watch her play with what's now obviously an old favourite of hers. Steve wonders if Stark used to play with her, too. If he'll ever get the chance to again. 

 

"Any news from Natasha?" he inquires, still watching the cat play.

 

Coulson hums. "She's supposed to call in soon. Get some coffee and wait with me."

 

"Alright," Steve says. "You want some more, too?"

 

"Please," Coulson says, smiling gratefully as he offers his cup. 

 

"What are we doing about Banner?" Steve asks, rinsing out the cups in the sink.

 

"Pulling back for now," the agent replies on a sigh. "We've never captured him before, so I’m not sure why we were trying now. Maybe this time he'll come to us, since we've got one of his friends."

 

By the time Steve has both cups poured and returned to his seat, Pepper has decided to drop her toy in his lap, and the screen before them says _INCOMING TRANSMISSION._

"Here we go," Coulson mutters as the call connects.

 

Natasha's face pops up on the screen, expression grim. 

 

"Natasha," Steve greets her. "How are you?"

 

"I have some important news to share," she answers. "You got a few minutes?"

 

"Only a few," Coulson replies, seating himself next to Steve. "We just collected Stark. Clint's with him and the medevac team."

 

"I heard," she says, frown deepening. She sounds troubled. "I'm just not sure that was a good idea."

 

"What do you mean?" Steve asks, uneasy. She sighs. 

 

"I got into Stane's computer," she explains, holding up a small flash drive, "and found this." 

 

"What is it?" Coulson asks sharply. 

 

Natasha shakes her head. "Big news. Sending it to you now." 

 

The screen goes black for a moment, then brightens. It's a horrific picture dating back three and a half years ago: a dazed and confused Stark, covered in blood, dirt, and bandages with guns from men off-screen pointed at him from all sides. Pepper mewls at the screen.

 

 There's someone speaking into the camera, face hidden, voice ugly and rough in a language Steve doesn't understand. A small word -- _TRANSLATE_ \-- pops up in the corner and the voice and words turn into that of a person speaking English. 

 

_"You did not tell us that the target you paid us to kill was the great Tony Stark. As you can see, Obadiah Stane, your deception and lies will cost you dearly._

_  
"The price to kill Tony Stark has just gone up." _


	22. what happens next?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! Here's a little piece of what you can expect in the sequel (which I'll be posting right after this)! Enjoy. uvu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me thus far! After this, if you're interested, please click the little arrow that will take you to the sequel! It's going to take a few minutes to post that, because doing it on my iPod is difficult, so please make sure to refresh the page a few timds if it's not up when you read this!

There's an ambulance in the park. 

Two men watch with the growing crowd, ignored by everyone, as what looks like a homeless man with ripped, dirty clothing is strapped to a stretcher and loaded onto the ambulance. Men in black suits stand around the area, in deep discussion with a pair of blonds who were with the sick man. The shorter man nods after a short phrase and hops into the ambulance just as the doors close. The siren starts and everyone watches it drive away.

Eventually the crowd disperses, leaving the first two men alone in the park.

"What can we do?"

"Come with me to Wakanda. You will be safe there."

"But what about Tony?"

"... I don't know." 

**8**

It's the end of a long business day. The setting sun lights the room through the ceiling-to-wall windows that make up one wall. At the desk, one ginger-haired woman sighs, head in her hands. This is the third night she's worked overtime.

She used to enjoy her job. 

The phone rings as the clock strikes seven. Pepper Potts sighs and answers. 

"Miss Potts," an unfamiliar voice says, crackling over the phone. "This is Agent Coulson of SHIELD. We have some information that might interest you."

Her grip tightens on the phone. "What information?" she asks, tense. 

"Information that can't be discussed on a company line," is the prompt response. "With your permission, I will hang up and call your personal phone in fifteen minutes." 

"Fine," Pepper answers tersely. She's familiar enough with SHIELD to know who Agent Coulson is. He wouldn't contact her if it wasn't something important to her. 

"Understood. Have a nice day, Miss Potts."

"Mm."


End file.
